


Green Things Are Flowers Too

by summerofspock



Series: Green Things [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Cottagecore, Domestic, Dowling Era, Explicit Sexual Content, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Humor, M/M, Messy emotions, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Other, Pining Aziraphale (Good Omens), Poetry, Requited Unrequited Love, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), The roses are a metaphor and no one was surprised, Tropes, all the fake relationship tropes tbh, but like actual slow burn not just including that 6000 years bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-06-30 07:50:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 60,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19848766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock
Summary: “Oh yes,” Crowley said breezily. “This is my husband, Francis. He’s a gardener by trade. We were hoping you might have an opening. An estate such as this.”Aziraphale gaped from where he stood on the stoop, feeling his heart speed up. Husband? Francis? Gardener? He’d never agreed to any of this!**In which Aziraphale and Crowley pretend to be married while they stay at the Dowlings as Nanny and Francis.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Зеленое — цветущее](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22743919) by [WTF_Good_Omens_2020](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTF_Good_Omens_2020/pseuds/WTF_Good_Omens_2020)



> i will not apologize for how wild this idea is. i ABSOLUTELY fuck with canon here: read the ways  
> 1) yes nanny ashtoreth has no first name but i wasn't going to live without one for the WHOLE FIC  
> 2) im pretty sure nanny and brother join the dowling estate later in Warlock's life but i wanted to give it TIME  
> 3) Crowley and Aziraphale haven't seen each other since Aziraphale gave him holy water (idk if this is supported in the show at all but its supported by THIS FIC)  
> title from an untitled frank ohara poem 
> 
> beta'ed by [ wingittofreedom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wingittofreedom/pseuds/WingittoFreedom) who is a saint for reading and editing this given the fact that she isn't even in this fandom but does write some DOPE star trek fic if you're in the market

The call about the Apocalypse was not entirely unexpected. Gabriel’s cryptic warning had been enough to unsettle Aziraphale and when Crowley’s voice had echoed through the receiver, his heart truly dropped. It may have been thirty years since they had last seen each other—a difficult conversation about holy water driving a wedge between them that Aziraphale had not yet figured out how to remove—but coming together at the Ritz did remind Aziraphale of why they had become tentative friends in the first place. Or at least not enemies. And the more they drank the worse the Apocalypse sounded and as always, Crowley had some sort of solution. A solution that Aziraphale didn’t exactly like but saw the logic in.

If it was their best option then he just had to go along with it.

“Godfathers,” Aziraphale whispered to himself. 

The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. All those millennia on Earth and he’d never had the opportunity to rear a child, to hold true influence over the ideals and growth of a newly made being. 

He smiled broadly at Crowley who was giving him a smirk, seemingly pleased with himself as well. 

“How exactly would that work?” Aziraphale asks out loud.

They’d shaken on this new Arrangement (Aziraphale’s better judgment still ringing warnings in his head) and Crowley promised to iron out the details so when Crowley called him the next day to explain the plan, Aziraphale had—not without trepidation—gone to Crowley’s apartment the following week so they could go to the Dowling estate together and obtain employment.

“You know, I still don’t see how I’m going to find a way to counter your influence on the boy if you’re going to be his nanny. You’ll be with him all the time,” Aziraphale said loudly so Crowley could hear him from where he was in the bedroom. Tapping his foot nervously against the stone floor, Aziraphale distracted himself by listening as the sound echoed through the sparsely furnished apartment.

Aziraphale frowned as Crowley slithered from his bedroom into the living room, dressed like a schoolmarm. Sensing Aziraphale’s slight surprise, Crowley gave him a glare. “Do you have a problem?”

“Not at all. I just didn’t realize you’d be changing your presentation for the role.”

“I thought something traditional would make the Dowling’s more trusting. And besides, I like the look. It’s been ages since I’ve changed things up,” Crowley added.

“Very Mary Poppins of you,” Aziraphale teased.

Crowley bared his teeth and grumbled mockingly, “ _Mary Poppins_ ” before conjuring a large mirror into the living room.

The outfit was quite dashing. Aziraphale couldn’t remember the last time Crowley had taken to female presentation. A handful of decades at least.

“What pronouns would you like me to use my dear?” Aziraphale asked, tilting his head, recalling that although Crowley typically preferred he/him, Crowley had occasionally requested others.

“He/him is fine,” Crowley said as he fiddled with the buttons on his jacket. Then he paused. “Though I suppose I’ll be using she/her with the family. Either works really.”

Aziraphale watched as Crowley tied a ribbon around his collar, looking at his reflection speculatively. A memory slammed into Aziraphale, Crowley, curls slicked down, red lipstick smeared as he spun in the arms of a gentleman, the tassels on his drop waist dress dancing with the swing of his hips, saxophone playing while smoke curled around his shoulders. When had that been? 1926? They hadn’t been speaking, but Aziraphale had still sent Crowley a drink before he slipped out of the bar, not wanting to deal with another confrontation. Another conversation about holy water.

“Best disguise yourself as well,” Crowley said gesturing at Aziraphale, who nodded in agreement.

Performing a brief miracle to extend his belly, redden his cheeks and change into a more modest version of his typical suit took less than a moment. At the same time he manifested a suitcase filled with similar clothes. Crowley gave him a once over and then sighed. “Really?”

“What? Do I look bad?” Aziraphale asked, patting his waistcoat anxiously.

Crowley rolled his eyes and didn’t answer. He slipped on a pair of low black heels as thin sunglasses appeared on his nose.

“Hop to it angel. We don’t have all day.”

Crowley summoned a taxi—for once eschewing his beloved Bentley in favor of blending in—and Aziraphale loaded the back with their suitcases. Noting that the driver was giving Crowley an appreciative look in the rearview mirror, Aziraphale cleared his throat and did his best to glare. Human men could be such boors. 

His weak glare obviously hadn’t worked though because the driver ignored him and turned on the radio before pulling onto the road. He dropped them at the gate of the Dowling estate, leaving Aziraphale to take their bags—honestly Crowley could be so forgetful—and trail after his friend as he marched over the driveway to the front door.

With the doorbell energetically pressed by Crowley, they stood together, waiting, Aziraphale shifting behind him, a tad unsure of how this was about to go. The door swung open to reveal a pale man who looked at them a little warily. “Hello,” Crowley said in a soft brogue that was entirely unfamiliar to Aziraphale. “I’m here for the nanny position. Lilith Ashtoreth.”

The man—presumably the butler—took Crowley’s outstretched hand and shook it. “Ah, yes, we’ve been expecting you.”

Simpering convincingly, Crowley stepped over the threshold as the man looked at Aziraphale in confusion. “Oh yes,” Crowley said breezily. “This is my husband, Francis. He’s a gardener by trade. We were hoping you might have an opening. An estate such as this.”

Aziraphale gaped from where he stood on the stoop, feeling his heart speed up. Husband? Francis? Gardener? He’d never agreed to any of this!

The man gave a slightly blank expression that Aziraphale recognized as the work of a short demonic manipulation, so his propitious answer was no surprise. “What a coincidence,” the butler said in a monotone. “Our gardener recently retired. You’ll have to discuss it with Mrs. Dowling of course.”

“Of course,” Crowley tittered and then looked at Aziraphale as if to say _hurry up_.

Aziraphale walked into the foyer in a bit of a daze.

“We’d typically put you in the servants’ wing with your own quarters, but if your husband will be taking the position of gardener it may make more sense for you both to live in the gardener’s cottage.”

“What is your name, dear fellow?” Aziraphale asked brightly, recovering himself enough to attempt an accent the likes of Crowley’s. It came out a sort of twisted Irish and Crowley made a noise that was half laugh half cry but mostly sounded like a parrot squawking and Aziraphale got the ungentlemanly urge to step on his foot.

“Pearson,” the butler replied.

“Lovely to meet you,” Aziraphale said, glaring at Crowley behind Pearson’s back in lieu of giving into his impulse. He was rather miffed with the demon who had clearly had this all planned and not told him.

Pearson led them through a foyer and into a large dining room where a woman with a severe bob sat at the far end of a long chestnut table, slowly eating melon as her eyes scanned the newspaper in her hand. She looked up at the sound of the door and smiled. “You must be Nanny Ashtoreth.”

 _Strict but friendly_ , Aziraphale decided, realizing he had been expecting a sort of dour woman with all the brashness of an American and very little regard for anyone. 

“My apologies. Thaddeus was called away on business”— _now_ she sounded a little sour—“who’s this?” she asked, more to Pearson than Crowley. Aziraphale realized she meant _him_.

“This is my husband, Francis,” Crowley said, stepping forward. “We were hoping he might find employment here and Pearson said your gardener recently retired.”

“Oh, Mr. Smith! He was a miracle worker with the hydrangeas. Pearson—why don’t you get them set up in the cottage and when I get back this evening I can go through the expectations with Warlock,” Ms. Dowling instructed with a sharp nod to the butler.

“Thank you very much, Ms. Dowling,” Crowley said, still soft and faintly sibilant.

“Call me Harriet,” she responded with a smile before turning back to her paper—a dismissal.

Out through the back door was a truly breathtaking courtyard, which Pearson gestured them into. 

A courtyard filled with plants. Oh dear. Was Aziraphale going to be responsible for all of them?

“Here are the gardener’s quarters,” Pearson informed them after leading them up a series of steps and through a copse of trees which revealed a lovely one story cottage with a small souzu water fountain at the start of the path, the steady plink of the bamboo accompanying their footsteps to the door.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Pearson said once he had unlocked the door and pressed the key into Crowley’s palm.

Aziraphale flicked on the light by the door, turning on a sconce in the entryway, a warm color dousing a small hallway that led into the rest of the cottage. He walked inside, surveying the layout, Crowley slinking behind him. A cozy sitting room with a fireplace to the right, further down an entryway to a decent sized kitchen with a breakfast nook directly across from a mudroom with a shower and the laundry. At the very end of the hall was the bedroom which was connected to a small bathroom with rose patterned wallpaper.

Immediately after depositing the suitcases on the bed, Aziraphale whirled on Crowley in a fluster. “When were you going to tell me what you were planning?” he groused. A bird chirped outside the open window, the idyllic nature of it all ruining his foul mood. No angel could stay mad in such a cozy place—at least Aziraphale was sure _he_ couldn’t.

Crowley took off his glasses, sedately folding them up before placing them on the bedside table. “Look, I had a vague idea before we came but it was spur of the moment—I wasn’t sure it would work until I _said_ it.”

“You said we were married!” Azipraphale protested, punctuating each word as if it were its own sentence. “And I’m supposed to be a _gardener!_ I’m terrible with plants, do you remember when I tried to grow those herbs and they all rotted? I didn’t know plants _could_ rot—”

“First of all,” Crowley cut in, placating, “I’ll help you with the plants. Second, appearing married will make this easier. What better excuse to spend time together in private, exchange notes on how things are going?”

Aziraphale’s shoulders drooped. Crowley was right. _Damn him._ Oh dear. He shouldn’t be thinking that way, but he wasn’t about to _bless_ him. “Fine. But I want you to know I am very cross with you,” Aziraphale huffed.

Crowley gave him a dark smile. “You could never stay mad at me, angel.”

Aziraphale’s heart gave an involuntary skip. “Don’t tempt me,” he said, putting his hands on his hips.

Crowley tossed back his head and laughed.

**

Steadily unpacking his luggage, Aziraphale enjoyed the feel of the fabric and the ritual of putting everything where he knew he could find it. He didn’t strictly need to bring clothes of course, what with his powers to both keep himself clean and also miracle new clothes at will, but there was something comforting about watching his outfits fill the wardrobe, about folding his pajamas into a drawer that made him feel settled. Like this could be a home. 

Crowley perched in a chair by the window, somehow finding the only true sunshine in the room, basking like a reptile warming their blood. “Wouldn’t you like to unpack?” Aziraphale ventured, smoothing his hand over his pajama top before placing it atop his pajama bottoms. Very tidy.

Crowley waved his hand and his suitcase flew open, a myriad of black blouses and red accents throwing themselves into the wardrobe, perfectly neat, the dark colors offsetting Aziraphale’s own creams and blues. His heart warmed at the sight of their belongings mingled together. 

“So should we talk about it?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley’s head whipped around, amber entirely expanding over the whites of his eyes, a sure sign of some distress. Aziraphale’s eyebrows drew together.

“Talk about what?” Crowley asked with narrowed eyes. Well. He didn’t have to be _quite_ so prickly.

“Our relationship! If we’re going to be married, shouldn’t we know more about each other’s cover stories? What if someone asks me about you?”

Crowley tilted his head and Aziraphale noticed the way the sunlight caught his hair, bright coppery fire. “Seems unnecessary.”

“Really?” Aziraphale asked incredulously. 

“The point of this is to keep a low profile with everyone except Warlock. We shouldn’t be socializing,” Crowley said, drawing out the last word in a hiss.

Aziraphale shook his head. Leave it to Crowley to completely misunderstand. “I’m not suggesting we _socialize_. I’m merely bringing up the very real possibility that Ms. Dowling or Pearson or anyone on staff asks us questions. Natural human curiosity, my dear.”

Crowley’s pink tongue darted out between his thin red lips, pausing as he thought. “Fine.”

Aziraphale preened. He loved when Crowley admitted he was right. “Glad we agree. How long have we been married?”

“20 years,” Crowley answered immediately. Aziraphale gave him a sharp look and sank down on the edge of the bed across from where Crowley was seated in the reading chair.

“Do we look old enough to have been married that long?”

Crowley’s severe expression melted into something more familiar, almost teasing. “Trust me, angel. We look old enough by far.”

Aziraphale rubbed at his face disconcertedly. He supposed Crowley was right. “No children?”

“Why would we have children and be here?”

“Well if we’ve been married for 20 years wouldn’t there have been time for them to come and go?”

“Children would be another story to keep track of. No children,” Crowley said firmly.

The image Aziraphale had somehow conjured in his mind of a little girl, Crowley’s red hair and his own round cheeks disappeared. He felt unaccountably sad for the absence of an imagined being who could never exist. “All right. How long have you been a nanny?”

Going back and forth until Aziraphale ran out of questions, they lapsed into a thick silence.

“Do you really think this is going to work?” Aziraphale asked into the quiet of the room.

“What else can we do?” Crowley replied, casting his gaze out the window over the immaculate rose garden.

Aziraphale had no idea how to care for roses.

**

Crowley went back to the main house later in the evening to meet with Mrs. Dowling while Aziraphale stayed behind, taking the opportunity to wander around the estate, cataloging the different plants that he knew he would struggle the most with. He would need to ask Crowley about the more complicated ones.

As he walked, his thoughts wandered back to the way Crowley had looked in the sunlight of their bedroom. _Their_ bedroom. Pausing in front of a topiary, he rubbed at his forehead.

And he’d been doing so well for the last half a century. They hadn’t been in much contact since the holy water incident. They’d avoided meeting in person, only communicating in notes and short telephone calls when the situation required.

Aziraphale had spent the better part of the time carefully boxing up whatever rising emotion had made itself known slowly but surely over the century.

Crowley in a dark suit, breezing past him on the street during the first world war. Crowley in a black dress, looking at him across a crowded room. Crowley walking over consecrated ground to protect him. Saving his books. Different forms but always the same.

Closing his eyes, Aziraphale took a deep breath. The next decade might be trying, working so closely with Crowley would be difficult, but it was worth it. It was for more than himself; it was for the world. 

And besides, what was a decade compared with 6000 years?

He walked back to the cottage and put the kettle on. A nice cup of tea and a good book was just the ticket. As the sunlight faded and the sitting room fell into darkness, Aziraphale clicked on the low lamp and settled in for a long night. He felt tired but not enough to sleep.

**

The door clicked open and Aziraphale startled, realizing he had been staring at the page, lost in thought. Crowley slipped into the sitting room, his fingers already working on the buttons of his jacket. He shrugged off the thick black garment and tossed it aside, kicking off his heels and collapsing into the fluffy green chair closest to the fireplace.

He snapped his fingers and the fire roared to life. He sighed as warmth slowly filled the room.

Aziraphale closed his book and set it on the end table. “How did it go?”

“You know, a baby is a baby with baby needs and baby wants. Very boring. Not much tempting to do at this age,” Crowley said, letting his head fall to rest on his hand as he tipped his face to the fire.

“Should we have perhaps waited until he was a little older?” Aziraphale asked.

“I don’t know. I thought it would be best to integrate with the family early. Less questions later.”

Aziraphale hummed in consideration. It was too late to change their strategy anyway. “I suppose you’re right.”

Crowley sighed again and it tugged at Aziraphale’s heart. “Can I do anything for you, my dear?” he asked against his better judgment. Indulging in his desire to take care of Crowley was not going to lead to anything good. 

Crowley heaved himself out of the chair. “I want to take off this makeup. Is there anything to drink in this house?”

Aziraphale hadn’t dug through the cupboards to see what the previous tenant had left behind when Crowley rather rudely evicted them with a thought, but if there wasn’t anything then he could spare a miracle to wipe the exhausted, anxious look from Crowley’s face. “I’ll see if I can track something down.”

Once in the kitchen, Aziraphale discovered a decent bottle of gin stored under the sink. He poured Crowley a glass with some soda water as he listened to the clink of jars and running water in the bathroom.

Crowley reappeared in the living room, face scrubbed clean and hair untucked, flowing in waves down to his shoulders. He’d removed his blouse and skirt and was now only in a black lacy slip that looked like it would be soft under—

Aziraphale's breath caught in his throat. He coughed. He needed to get a handle on this.

“There was some gin,” Aziraphale said, holding up the drink. The ice tinkled against the side.

Crowley gave him a wan smile as he took it, their hands brushing against the cold glass. The demon took a deep swallow before settling back into the chair. He tipped the cup in the direction of Aziraphale’s book.

“What are you reading these days?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale said, brightening. He loved discussing his reading. “Collected poems of Frank O’Hara. Wonderful reading!”

Crowley stuck out his lips and nodded thoughtfully. “The guys with the Lunch Poems? American?”

“One and the same,” Aziraphale said, smiling. Crowley turned back to the fire and removed his glasses. The flames reflected off his yellow eyes and Aziraphale said, before he could stop himself, “Would you like me to read to you a while?”

Crowley hummed his assent, so Aziraphale picked back up the book and read.

_Having a coke with you / is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne_

Aziraphale glanced up at Crowley where he was still gazing into the fire, eyes heavy lidded and relaxed. 

_or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona / partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian_

An image of Barcelona in the fall flashed through Aziraphale’s mind. What a lovely place. He had run into Crowley there once, a very long time ago.

_partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt / partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches / partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary_

A soft huff drew Aziraphale’s attention away from the poem. Crowley was beginning to nod off in the chair, glass tipping in his hand so Aziraphale shut the book and stood, plucking the drink from his hand. “Come on, dear boy. Time for bed.”

“Mngp,” Crowley grumbled and Aziraphale shook his head, herding the drooping demon to the bedroom where he collapsed on top of the covers. Aziraphale took a spare blanket from the cupboard and covered him up so he wouldn’t get cold.

He looked a little longingly at the bed. He felt so tired. But it wouldn’t do to lay down next to Crowley without discussing it. They would figure out the bed situation in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am genderfluid so a lot of my writing of Crowley as Nanny Ashtoreth is influenced by my own perspective and experience. 
> 
> the part of a poem read in this chapter is [Having a Coke With You by Frank O'Hara](https://poets.org/poem/having-coke-you) and its super rad and you should read it


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again beta'ed by [ wingittofreedom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wingittofreedom/pseuds/WingittoFreedom)

According to Crowley, Nanny Ashtoreth had been hired to take over the primary care of the baby when Harriet went back to work at the end of the month. Until then Crowley was only working half-time, helping Harriet with some of Warlock’s care and observing her preferred parenting style. He used the rest of his time to train Aziraphale on the care of the plants.

“...so you don’t want to overwater the roses. Soil here is clay-heavy so it’ll retain moisture better than the Leviathan’s socks. They like to go on benders too—so only water them once a week, all at once rather than a little everyday so that the ground isn’t permanently waterlogged. And you _have_ to prune them,” Crowley instructed, scribbling down detailed care instructions next to the list of plants Aziraphale had put together. 

Aziraphale nodded energetically. At some point, his nerves had fallen away and he was beginning to feel somewhat excited at the prospect of learning a new trade. Plants could be just like books. Except alive.

“You said there was some topiary? Can you show me?” Crowley asked, setting down the pen and focusing his full attention on Aziraphale. It made something inside him squirm.

Crowely buttoned up his coat while Aziraphale pulled a hat over his hair, making sure his disguise was firmly in place. The false teeth really were rather uncomfortable. 

Walking through the garden, the pair covered the long distance to the side of the house where the intricate topiary loomed over dirt paths. Crowley circled the artfully pruned shrubs, humming in consideration.

“You might just have to miracle these,” Crowley said. “They’re a little intricate for someone untrained to maintain.”

Aziraphale huffed in indignation but Crowley held up his hands. “Don’t even think I’d be able to, angel.”

Scuffing footsteps interrupted their conversation and Crowley’s hand shot out to hold Aziraphale’s. The angel scrabbled to retain a sense of calm as he gaped down at their intertwined fingers. 

“Oh my, what a lovely topiary. I do fancy the lion, Francis,” Crowley said in that light Scottish voice that Aziraphale hadn’t yet grown accustomed to.

Harriet appeared between two of the shrubs, pushing a pram. “Oh! Nanny Ashtoreth! Francis! I didn’t expect to run into you here. I was just taking Warlock for a walk,” she said, scrunching up her nose and making little cooing noises as she looked down at the baby.

“We were exploring the grounds,” Crowley said, all politeness. “We wanted to get some time alone before we’re too busy.”

Harriet looked between them sympathetically. “Nanny Ashtoreth, you know you need only ask if you want some time off to, um, spend with your husband.”

The implication in her voice was clear. Azirphale blushed and desperately wanted to snatch his hand back. Crowley covered his mouth with his free hand, affecting embarrassment, but probably enjoying the charade. _Demons love lying after all_ , Aziraphale thought with a strong twinge of crankiness. 

“Of course, Ms. Dowling. That’s not necessary,” Crowley simpered.

“We’ll keep that in mind for the future,” Aziraphale offered since it seemed like the thing to say, once again finding himself resisting the urge to stamp on Crowley’s foot.

“Well, I’ll leave you two alone,” Harriet said cheerfully before pushing off. 

Smothering his embarrassment, Aziraphale gathered himself, murmuring a goodbye before looking back at Crowley. “She seems a rather nice lady,” he said once she was out of earshot, still feeling rather miffed by Crowley’s ridiculous behavior.

“Not what I expected if I’m being honest,” Crowley replied, gazing after their employer.

Realizing with mounting horror that they were still holding hands, Aziraphale quickly pulled away, stomach twisting in shame. “So! The topiary!”

“Right,” Crowley said tightly. “A miracle or two should do.”

“Right,” Aziraphale repeated, clearing his throat. “The hydrangeas?”

Crowley nodded sharply and turned back to the main garden walking so quickly his heels didn’t even have time to sink into the damp earth.

Aziraphale went behind him, a little out of sorts, the feeling of Crowley’s cool, dry hand in his lingering ghost-like on his fingertips. What he needed was some time to get his head on straight. A good long break from the demon. 

Unfortunately, he realized, he had a long time before he would get one.

**

Crowley spent the afternoon at the main house, working with Ms. Dowling and baby Warlock, so Aziraphale puttered around the garden, pruning dead leaves and doing the watering as per Crowley’s orders. It was actually quite soothing to be around plants, the chirping birds and buzzing bees accompanying his work and he wondered if this was how Adam and Eve had felt in the Garden before the fall. Perhaps Crowley would know.

After doing the rounds, he returned to the rose garden outside the cottage, staring at the persnickety plants in trepidation. Well, no time like the present to get used to the things. He could always use a little miracle to fix them up if they grew recalcitrant. And so, he went around the thorny plants, snipping the browner parts as Crowley had instructed.

Aziraphale looked at one of the red roses in the beginning stages of its bloom on a bush that looked a little overburdened and, on a whim, snipped it. It would look nice on the kitchen table. He took the stem between his fingers and tucked the pruning shears back into his apron. He wanted a shower, a real shower.

Entering the cottage through the back door into the mudroom, he kicked off his boots as he peeled off his smock. He went into the kitchen in his socked feet and slipped the rose into a tall cup before placing it on the small table by the window. He had been right. It looked very quaint.

Once in the bathroom, he removed the rest of his clothes and sighed as he got under the hot spray. His larger body was more prone to sweating so even when he returned to his normal appearance when safely inside the cottage, it didn’t do anything about the sweat pooled on his lower back. Water relaxed him though, and the tiredness from the previous day returned. He would really need to speak with Crowley about the bed situation.

Feeling decidedly better, Aziraphale shut off the water and pulled back the curtain only to find Crowley at the mirror scrubbing makeup from his face.

“Guh,” Aziraphale said and when Crowley turned to him with an arched brow, he yanked the curtain back into place.

“Would you like to cover up?” Crowley asked before tossing him a towel over the shower curtain.

Rivulets of water ran down from Aziraphales wet curls but instead of drying them, he wrapped the towel around himself. “You know, you could wait until I’m _out_ of the bathroom,” Aziraphale said, a little embarrassed and _very_ cross.

Crowley shrugged. “I’ve seen you in worse. I don’t mind.”

“Maybe _I_ mind.” He pushed back the curtain once more and stomped out of the bathroom before he said something he’d regret. In his frustration, he miracled himself dry and into his pajamas in one go. The soft material against his skin was soothing and when he went into the kitchen to make tea, he let the familiar process ground him. 

Crowley walked into the kitchen and rested his hip against the counter, arms crossed over his bare chest and silken pajama pants knotted tightly around his slim hips. Aziraphale closed his eyes as his heart grew infinitesimally heavier.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, turning back to the stove as the tea kettle whistled. “I think I’m very tired and I overreacted. We’ll be living in close quarters for a while and we really should get used to having each other underfoot.” 

Crowley had a sour look on his face, difficult to read with the sunglasses covering his eyes. 

Aziraphale poured two cups and continued, “Speaking of underfoot, I wanted to discuss the sleeping situation with you.”

The sour look turned into a frown. 

“Don’t look like that. I know you sleep most days and that’s fine but I’m not used to this kind of physical labor, so I’ll also want to sleep occasionally. Since there’s only the one bed and not exactly room to bring in another, I was hoping we could take turns? You sleep one night, I sleep the next or some such.”

“Whatever you want,” Crowley drawled, his casual, uncaring tone grating on Aziraphale’s last nerve. This was exactly what was bothering him. Crowley not understanding and dismissing his feelings on everything.

The angel slammed the kettle down onto the stove with more force than was particularly necessary. It clanged loudly and Crowley stood up straight, both eyebrows shooting up above his glasses. “Listen, I know we’ve had a difficult century and we haven’t exactly spent much time together in the last few decades but if we are going to make this work, which we _have_ to if we want to get anything done, then I need you to listen to me and to spend at least five seconds thinking about someone other than yourself.”

Crowley’s mouth dropped open and then closed again, a sharp click. Satisfied that he’d finally shut Crowley up, Aziraphale took his tea in hand and said, “I’m going to bed. Sleep wherever you want. I made you tea. You don’t have to drink it.”

Aziraphale went into the bedroom as calmly as he was able, but did submit to the urge to pull the door shut hard enough that it slammed in the frame. It was remarkably unsatisfying.

Lying down in the bed, he pulled the quilt up to his chin. He tried to let his physical tiredness draw him under but he couldn’t stop replaying the argument in his head. He shouldn’t have been quite so cruel.

**

When Aziraphale woke up the next morning, Crowley was already gone. In the light of day (and significantly less tired), Aziraphale wanted to apologize. It wasn’t fair of him to take out his feelings on the demon, who hadn’t done anything except forget the concept of personal space. Which was really just a Crowley trait. And one that Aziraphale had known about and accepted long ago.

He pushed down his feelings. No time to wallow when there was work to be done.

Time to get to weeding. Aziraphale had seen many a farmer do it and the general principle made sense: pull out any plants that weren’t there on purpose. So he knelt in the flower bed and got to work. 

The work was long and arduous and Aziraphale found himself developing a new respect for humans who truly did this every day, no convenient miracles to make it easier. As the sun began to set, Aziraphale realized he had only gotten through two flower beds and had five to go. How terribly disheartening, especially seeing as he suspected the weeds he _had_ pulled would grow back as quick as he could pull them.

Scrubbing his dirty hands over his smock, he returned to the cottage where he got in the shower, making sure to lock the door this time. Not that a lock would stop Crowley, but Aziraphale thought the message it sent was more important than anything.

As Aziraphale was changing into his pajamas, a hesitant knock sounded at the bedroom door and when he opened it, he was surprised to see Crowley there, still fully coiffed as Nanny Ashtoreth, holding a large basket in one hand. 

“I asked the cook,” Crowley began, voice pitched high before he seemed to realize it and then he cleared his throat to drop it back down to his normal register, “to make us a picnic. I thought we could…”

Crowley trailed off, and Aziraphale looked down at the basket, blinking. _One day we could go for a picnic._

More than anything, he sometimes wished he could forget that charged conversation that had felt so much like a confession, that he could forget the way he felt after walking away from the car. More afraid than he had ever been in his life, grieving and wishing he didn’t feel anything at all. 

He softened. “Of course,” he said. “Yes. Let me just change.”

Crowley nodded and turned around, leaving him to it. Perhaps Aziraphale’s comment about privacy had been taken to heart after all. Which was embarrassingly touching, he reflected with chagrin.

Once he was back into his day clothes, he joined Crowley in the living room. The demon stared at him expectantly and Aziraphale looked back, confused. “What is it?”

“You’ll need to look like Francis if we are going to go outside,” Crowley said as if it were obvious.

“Oh, right,” Aziraphale replied and quickly transformed himself. 

They went out into the garden in silence and Crowley laid out a blanket by the rose garden, the sound of crickets starting up in the distance as the sun seemed to hover by the horizon. It was a warm night, a lovely night truly and Aziraphale allowed himself a moment of contentment as he settled onto the blanket. This was Crowley’s apology, even if he would never say the words. And Aziraphale appreciated it.

Crowley folded himself onto the blanket, his skirt tucked over his knees, and opened the basket. “Would you open this?” he said when he handed Aziraphale a bottle of red wine and two glasses. 

Aziraphale complied and Crowley took out some cheese and grapes and very tasty looking sandwiches, the sight of which made Aziraphale’s beat faster as his mouth watered. “A very nice spread, my dear.”

“I thought that was the key to a good apology. Putting in the effort.”

Aziraphale dropped the grape that had been halfway to his mouth. “Are you actually apologizing?”

Crowley kept his gaze focused on the basket as he took out some small plates. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“It’s just you never—you’ve never done that before.”

“Excuse me,” Crowley prickled. “Yes I have.”

“When?” Aziraphale challenged. 

Crowley’s face contorted with thought, the process of remembering something that had never actually happened being quite difficult after all. “Erm…ah...hmm...”

“Exactly.”

“Fine. Well, I thought it would stop your huffing.”

A wave of fondness overtook the angel. This Crowley he recognized. The one who would lie so that he couldn’t be accused of being nice. Who would brush off kindness and thanks just to appear aloof. “Apology accepted and appreciated,” Aziraphale responded, deciding not to voice his thoughts.

Crowley smoothed his hands over his skirt and Aziraphale noticed the blood red polish on his nails. He looked down at his own hands and mourned the destruction of his manicure. “Wine?” he offered.

“Absolutely,” the demon answered.

Two bottles later— _where had they gotten that second bottle?_ —Aziraphale felt downright _effervescent_ as Crowley gesticulated with his glass, wine sloshing onto his hand. “Have you ever changed a diaper, Aziraphale?”

“Can’t—can’t say I have,” Aziraphale replied. His tongue felt thick. Hmm. “Have you?”

“First time. Today. ‘S gross. _Ugh_.”

“I can imagine. Though I’d prefer not to,” Aziraphale said, scrunching his nose in distaste.

“Two more years of this. At least.”

“Couldn’t you…” Aziraphale wiggled his fingers suggestively, “Get rid of it?”

“The baby?” Crowley asked, sounding shocked.

“No! The diaper!”

“Oh.” Crowley hummed. “Hadn’t thought of it.”

A laugh bubbled up out of Aziraphale and soon both of them were leaning into each other giggling, wine glasses discarded in the grass. Eventually their laughter faded into silence as Aziraphale gazed at Crowley while he looked up at the stars and Aziraphale felt a warmth he knew he would be ashamed of later when he inevitably replayed this moment in his mind over and over for years—maybe for centuries, if they were successful in their enterprise.

“Thank you for this. Apology or no, it was”— _don’t say nice—_ “enjoyable.”

Crowley leaned on one hand and gave him a small smile which quickly brightened. “I forgot!”

Aziraphale looked at him confusion as the demon sat up and rifled through the basket. “I got you cake!”

He sounded so earnestly excited that Aziraphale’s heart stuttered. “What?”

“Cake! I asked the cook for one.”

Crowley pulled out a slice of chocolate cake on a little plate, covered by plastic wrap with ganache slicked up the side so shiny that Aziraphale could already feel it melting on his tongue. 

“Let’s share it,” Aziraphale said, peeling off the plastic and pausing as he dug his fork into the dense slice.

“It’s for you,” Crowley said quietly and Aziraphale wasn’t going to argue. The first bite was absolutely _divine._

With the stars fully out and no cloud cover to speak of, the night was turning chilly so they wrapped up the picnic and returned the cottage, pleasantly drunk and full of good food.

Aziraphale left Crowley to the bathroom to remove his makeup and undo his hair. As he waited for his turn, he sat in the living room to read a little more O’Hara, but found himself too distracted.

 _And no wonder_ , he thought as the door of the bathroom snicked, drawing Aziraphale’s attention and revealing Crowley, coming into the living room, hair curling softly about his ears. He had his glasses off. “Bathroom’s yours,” he said, hovering in the door. 

“Can I have the bed tonight?” he asked after Aziraphale, making him pause in the hallway.

He smiled at the demon. “Of course, my dear.”

Crowley nodded so sharply that his hair came untucked. Aziraphale reached up and pushed the curl back into place behind his ear. “I like your hair like this, you know.”

The shame didn’t hit Aziraphale until he closed the bathroom door behind him. It had barely been a week of them living together and he was already behaving like a lovesick fool. He leaned his forehead against the door and took a deep breath.

One day at a time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Billie Holiday references include The Man I Love and  Loverman (Where Can you Be?)
> 
> Margaret Atwood quote from The Handmaid's Tale
> 
> beta'ed by [ wingittofreedom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wingittofreedom/pseuds/WingittoFreedom). thank you for your unflagging support

A month later, on Crowley’s first full day as Nanny Ashtoreth, Aziraphale took a break from the garden—which he was rather proud of given Crowley’s doubt regarding his gardening skills—with the purpose of meeting some of the staff.

Of course, Crowley was going to reprimand him. Or it least give him a scathing look. According to the demon, socializing risked their mission and wasn’t worth it.

Aziraphale not-so-respectfully disagreed.

He washed the dirt from his hands in the mudroom of the house proper, still surprised by how large the place was. Who knew an American diplomat made so much money? Perhaps he had inherited it all. Given the human proclivity for nepotism, Aziraphale wouldn’t be surprised.

With the decision made to seek out a few more of the staff, Aziraphale made his way into the kitchen and found a round cheeked Asian man, arms covered in lovely, winding tattoos humming to himself as he kneaded dough. He looked up when Aziraphale entered the room but didn’t stop his work.

“Hello there,” Aziraphale said, doing his best at the fake accent. Practice makes perfect after all. He hadn’t much occasion to use it back at the cottage when it was just him and Crowley. “I’m Francis. The new gardener. I thought I’d come around and say hullo to folks I hadn’t met yet.”

The cook gave him an unimpressed look and said, “I’m Hiro.”

“Nice to meet you Hiro,” Aziraphale said, taking off his cap as he began to feel a little awkward and wanted something to do with his hands. “I’m Francis, the new gardener.”

Hiro finally paused in his work. “You’re Lilith’s husband?”

Aziraphale felt a thrill at being called Crowley’s husband. Even as he was playing a character. 

_Husband_.

Hiro was staring at him.

“Oh, yes. That’s me!” he said brightly. The more he did this the more he realized how dismal he was at lying (that big one to God about the flaming sword really hadn’t prepared him for something this long term). Perhaps Crowley had the right of it in insisting they keep to themselves.

He was really in it if he was starting think _Crowley_ was right.

“Lovely woman, her,” Hiro grunted, punching the dough. “How long have you been together?”

“21 years next February,” Aziraphale said, doing his best to sound the doting husband. It wasn’t as hard as he thought.

Hiro nodded sharply and slammed the dough into the bread board, startling Aziraphale. “I’ll leave you to it,” Aziraphale said. “I did want to share my compliments on the chocolate cake you sent with C—Lilith. A triumph, really.”

“Didn’t make it,” Hiro replied, still kneading the dough with a force that Aziraphale found a little frightening. “Just gave the girl the ingredients.”

Aziraphale’s hands twisted in the fabric of his cap. He pictured Crowley, dusted in flour and chocolate powder, focused entirely on making him a cake. An apology cake. For Aziraphale. As his heart climbed up into his throat, he felt he hadn’t been nearly appreciative enough of that cake, which was saying something as he had appreciated it quite a bit. 

“Well, thank you for helping her.”

Hiro gave a grunt of acknowledgment and Aziraphale exited the kitchen into the dining room in search of Crowley. When he walked into the foyer, he ran directly into Pearson who was busy hanging up coats. 

At the sound of his boots on the tile, Pearson turned to him and asked, “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Nanny Ashtoreth?” Aziraphale asked and then kicked himself. He should have said Lilith.

“You call your wife Nanny?” Pearson asked with a pained expression like he regretted asking.

“Only when she’s on duty,” he rushed to assure him. _So bad at lying_.

Pearson gave him a dubious look but directed him upstairs to the baby’s room.

Aziraphale climbed up the stairs, taking the first right as instructed, easing open the door and finding Crowley in a rocking chair, baby tucked against his shoulder as he hummed. Affection rushed through Aziraphale, nearly making him take a step back. Crowley looked up, noticing him for the first time, and put a finger to his lips before standing. He settled the baby into the crib and shooed Aziraphale from the room.

“What do you need?” Crowley asked, tucking a stray bit of hair behind his ear with deft fingers. 

Aziraphale was then faced with the realization that he should have perhaps waited to seek Crowley out. Maybe when he returned to the cottage that evening. Too late, he told himself, you’re already here.

“I wanted to thank you,” Aziraphale said.

A thin eyebrow appeared over the frame of Crowley’s sunglasses. “For?”

Aziraphale lost his nerve. Crowley, when confronted with evidence of his caring or kindness could sometimes lash out. “The picnic.”

“Yes, you thanked me when it happened. A month ago...” Crowley said, looking at him as if he were slightly insane, eyebrows contorting.

“Well I wanted to thank you again. And say that we should do it again. If the weather holds?”

A tiny smile quirked one side of Crowley’s mouth and then disappeared. “If you’d like.”

Wringing his hands, Aziraphale stood there, trying to think of something else to say but at a loss. 

“I’m going back to the baby then,” Crowley said with a gesture to the door behind him.

“You should bring him out to the garden some time,” Aziraphale said quickly, trying to assuage the strange anxiety that flooded through him at the thought of Crowley walking away right then. “It would be good to give me some time with him. Even things out.”

“I suppose I could take him for more walks. Say I wanted to see my husband,” Crowley said pensively.

There it was again. _Husband._

“If we want to give him as much exposure to good as to evil, we will need to—” Pearson rounded the corner of the hallway and Aziraphale panicked, stepping closer to Crowley and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Goodbye, sweetheart. I’ll see you this evening.”

“Ngk,” Crowley said, wide-eyed before he noticed Pearson who was still striding down the hall. “Goodbye, _dearie_ ,” he rushed to add.

Aziraphale gave Pearson a toothy grin—enabled by his very large false teeth—and passed him in the hall, making his way back out to the garden as the sun buzzed against his skin.

**

Crowley made good on his promise later in the week. 

On a particularly sunny day when he met Aziraphale in the courtyard, pushing the black pram Aziraphale had seen Mrs. Dowling use.

“Francis! What a delightful surprise,” Crowley said overdramatically.

Aziraphale put down his clippers and clasped his hands together as he looked around. If Crowley was behaving this way then was someone nearby? When he didn’t see anyone he asked in a low voice, “What’s with the nanny act?”

Crowley shot a sharp look at the baby and dropped his voice, “Warlock is here and we should _always_ be in character around him. What if he remembers?”

“For goodness sake, Crow—” the demon glared “—Lilith, he’s a _baby_.”

“The human brain is a powerful thing,” Crowley said primly, once more using his nanny voice. Aziraphale sighed but acquiesced.

“Hello, darling, it’s awfully sweet of you to stop by for a visit,” he said, also a little dramatically. He supposed he’d have time to perfect the whole loving nanny/gardener couple thing before Warlock was really paying attention to them. “Who is this little cherub?”

“Warlock, say hello,” Crowley instructed, firm and lilting.

The baby looked up at Aziraphale and promptly started wailing. The angel took a step back in surprise as Crowley choked back a laugh.

“You should see the look on your face.”

Aziraphale scowled but tried to keep up the charade. “Oh my dear boy, I’m sorry I gave you a fright,” he said in his softest voice as he wiggled his finger in front of Warlock’s scrunched up face in an effort to distract the boy.

Sure enough, with Aziraphale’s angelic powers focused, Warlock responded to him immediately. His face smoothed and he reached up with little hands to grasp at Aziraphale’s finger which the angel used to boop his nose. Warlock giggled and Aziraphale beamed, turning his head to look at Crowley as if to say _See_.

The demon was looking at him, bony arms crossed over his slim chest, and his face looked...well, it looked surprised. Or maybe... _awestruck?_

Aziraphale straightened up. “Don’t look like that. I’m good with children. It comes with the whole angel business.”

Crowley snorted. “Maybe you should have been the nanny.”

“If you’ll recall, that’s what I said,” Aziraphale reminded him before turning back to Warlock and scooping him out of his pram. “Is Nanny Ashtoreth taking good care of you? Yes, my sweet boy. I’m sure she is.”

He rocked the baby slightly and started walking, leaving Crowley to push the pram behind him. “Now have you seen the gardens? All sorts of lovely plants and birds gracing the world. The beautiful world.”

“Laying it on a bit thick, eh,” Crowley said under his breath, earning a sharp glare from Aziraphale.

“As if you’re not whispering evil thoughts into his tiny head at all hours,” Aziraphale said, bringing up his hand to Warlock's back as the baby gurgled.

“That’s what I’m supposed to be doing,” Crowley retorted, leaning forward so most of his weight was balanced on the handles of the pram. How he didn’t fall over Aziraphale hadn’t the faintest idea.

“Well, this is what _I’m_ supposed to be doing.”

Crowley let him putter around with the baby for half an hour before insisting he take Warlock back inside for a nap. Aziraphale let him go reluctantly, missing the warm bundle in his arms and the feeling of Crowley’s gaze on him.

**

A few weeks later, Crowley returned to the cottage late. Aziraphale was already showered and tucked in bed, book in hand. He looked up when Crowley tossed open the bedroom door, peeling off his jacket with disgust.

“Spit up, so much spit up,” Crowley spat before he hucked the jacket against the far wall. It smacked into the flower-patterned wallpaper and slid to the ground.

“Did you use your powers to-”

“Of course I did!” Crowley snapped. 

Rolling his shoulders and flailing his limbs, Crowley groaned in distress. “I feel like it’s still on me.”

Aziraphale crawled out of the bed, loathe to leave the warm cocoon of quilts, but not wanting to watch Crowley flap about any longer. “Calm down, my dear. Let me help.”

Aziraphale ran a soothing hand over Crowley’s shoulder blade and the demon slumped. Aziraphale swallowed, tongue thick and heart racing. He carefully slipped Crowley’s unbuttoned blouse from his shoulders, leaving him in his black slip and long skirt. “There, one down. Let’s take care of your hair.”

Crowley sank down on the edge of the bed and Aziraphale came up beside him to remove the bobby pins from his tightly wound hair. Each one slipped easily from the copper curls, which relaxed like snakes uncoiling, helped along by Aziraphale’s powers. Once they were all removed, Aziraphale allowed himself to run his hand through Crowley’s hair, once, twice. Just to check that he had got them all.

As the final strands slipped through his fingers, he heard Crowley sigh. 

“All done. Now why don’t you go shower.”

Crowley left the room, looking exhausted and Azirphale gazed mournfully at the warm bed. Maybe Crowley would be fine with him having it for the night?

Aziraphale sat down in the swiftly cooling spot he had vacated, picking up his book, resigned to finish his reading and be unceremoniously kicked out.

But when Crowley came back to the room, hair wet and body draped in his black lace slip, he just pulled back the covers and crawled in next to the angel. Aziraphale’s breath caught as he looked down at Crowley where he had tucked himself into the pillow on his side, eyes shut tight.

“What are you staring at?” the demon asked, not opening his eyes.

Aziraphale breathed through the ache in his chest. “Well, I was hoping I could have the bed tonight.”

Crowley grumbled and rolled over, turning his back to Aziraphale. “Mkshur.”

Aziraphale blinked and shut his book. “What was that?”

“We can share,” Crowley repeated, sounding half asleep.

“Oh, I, er…” Aziraphale stumbled over any coherent response. It would be fine. Yes, the bed was somewhat small but it wouldn’t be the first time they had slept near each other. It might be the first time since Aziraphale had admitted to himself he was in love with the demon but angels loved all things and it was _fine_.

“I really am very tired,” Aziraphale said again. “I suppose one night won’t hurt.”

Crowley didn’t respond so Aziraphale assumed he was asleep. He shut off the lamp and snuggled down into the blankets, steadily ignoring the way the mattress dipped beside him.

**

Aziraphale woke to the moonlight pouring through the window and a cool body pressed against his side. 

Turning his head he saw Crowley, mouth open and drooling onto his pillow, the moon illuminating him like it couldn’t resist bathing something so beautiful in light. The demon was somehow scooted so close to Aziraphale that the thin line of his body was pressed entirely against his side. They weren’t exactly cuddling but Crowley’s hand was wound tightly around his shoulder as if trying to keep him in place while he absorbed Aziraphale’s warmth. Heat and affection stirred in Aziraphale’s belly and he almost laughed at himself. There was nothing sensual about Crowley like this. None of his telltale swagger to emphasize his long limbs and slim hips. Like this he was just a person, bony and awkward, hair tossed about his face as he breathed evenly in his sleep, and somehow all the more alluring for that.

Closing his eyes briefly before forcing himself out of the bed, Aziraphale acknowledged he was in an emotionally precarious position. With all the affection boiling inside him, he was fit to burst.

It wasn’t that he was afraid of rejection. Not at all. What Aziraphale was terrified of was Heaven finding out. Of being punished. Shaking his head, he looked back at Crowley.

That wasn’t entirely true though, and he knew it. He _was_ afraid of rejection, in a sense. Afraid of indulging what felt like a bottomless well of love inside him and finding Crowley couldn’t return it. That he’d be a starving man in a desert, left scrabbling at sands when Crowley finally understood the depth of his love and walked away, disgusted by it. He thought of a Margaret Atwood quote, the Sufi proverb and sighed.

_There is no sign in the desert that says: Thou Shalt Not Eat Stones._

_Do not let me be ruled by desperation_ , Aziraphale thought, a half prayer.

With a heavy heart, Aziraphale went into the kitchen and took some grapes out of the fridge, taking them with him to the living room where he settled into the armchair and picked up Frank O’Hara, immediately realizing he wasn’t in the mood for Frank’s meandering lines, the way they celebrated longing.

Instead, he ate his grapes and stared out the window as dawn began to break. Just as the birds started chirping, he scribbled out a little note, leaving it on the kitchen table by the rose in its vase before miracling himself back to his bookshop.

 _Crowley_ — _I have to pop to London for a little work. I’ll be back in a few days. Can you make my excuses if the Dowlings ask after me?_

_Yours,_

_Aziraphale_

**

After months of living with Crowley, Aziraphale found the bookshop dreadfully boring, not at all the distraction he’d planned. Where was the slouching demon shouting at the TV? Where were the heels stacked by the door? The bobby pins strewn in the bathroom?

Aziraphale tried to find comfort in his books, the familiar work of redoing bindings and restoring texts. The joy he usually found in it felt hollow so he went on walks around Soho, performing little miracles in the hopes that it would improve his mood.

And it did.

A teenage girl crying on a stoop realized she was going to be ok. A man who didn’t have enough to pay for groceries found one hundred pounds on the ground. A woman arguing with a traffic cop apologized and was let off.

Aziraphale smiled under the crowded London skies. This was it. Humanity. And he loved it. This was what it was all for.

With the clamoring inside him settled, he hustled back to the bookshop and packed up a few more of his favorite books before miracling himself back to the cottage’s living room. It smelled the same, earthen and old and somehow already like the lavender perfume which he’d come to irrevocably associated with Crowley. Aziraphale closed his eyes and breathed it in. Lavender would never be the same. This was his life now. At least for a while and there was no point in struggling against it.

He had always been good at making the best of things. Conjuring a little gramophone, he summoned his favorite records (and a few of Crowley’s) and put on some Billie Holiday as he unpacked his books onto the shelves inset in the walls on either side of the fireplace. The contralto stretch of her voice crackling to life over the speakers.

_I don't know why but I'm feeling so sad / I long to try something I never had_

One by one the books scuffed against the wooden shelf, old friends settling into place as if they belonged there. _Wuthering Heights, Pride and Prejudice, The Hobbit, Shakespeare’s Sonnets._

He’d also brought the books he’d been meaning to read, _House of Leaves, Outlander, Cloud Atlas._

Nothing like a little pop fiction to cleanse the palate.

_Oh, what we've been missing / Lover man, oh, where can you be_

He hummed along as he finished unpacking the books. Two shelves worth which wasn’t nearly enough. He might have to make another trip to the shop. Or perhaps finally give in and watch the television programs Crowley wheedled him about. 

Crowley.

He needed to talk to Crowley. He was done dancing around the subject. If they acknowledged the elephant in the room, it would feel less like it was pressing down on Aziraphale’s chest and they could move on. Aziraphale could move on.

He turned back to the living room, determined that if he was going to live here for the foreseeable future then he was going to _like_ it. It might take a miracle for it to feel like home, but he was an angel after all.

_**_

Interrupting him halfway through his efforts to roll up the hideous living room rug, Crowley stepped in, coming to a stop in the doorway. 

The familiar ache took up residence in Aziraphale’s chest. _More reason to get this over with,_ he thought, looking up at Crowley, breathing hard, certain his cheeks were pink and feeling sweat bead on his forehead. Crowley was still dressed in his nanny clothes, a black trumpet skirt that ended halfway down his shins, a dark gray blouse, ruby brooch nestled in the collar. Aziraphale immediately felt dumpy in his old smock and ill fitting trousers. He would have to get used to it. It wasn’t as if Francis was going to be a particularly fashionable individual. Yet another thing to adjust to.

 _Still I'm sure to meet him one day / Maybe Tuesday will be my good news day,_ Billie warbled from the corner.

“Record player?” Crowley asked, still using his Nanny Ashtoreth voice. 

“I’m trying to spruce things up a bit,” Aziraphale said as he settled back on his haunches. 

Crowley acknowledged him with a grunt, a soft sound, more Nanny Ashtoreth than anything, before turning on his shiny black heels and clacking down the hallway without a word. The door to the bedroom shut loudly.

Feeling put out, Aziraphale went back to removing the rug. No house of his would have something with geometric patterns on it.

Crowley stayed in the bedroom for the rest of the evening, through Aziraphale changing the furniture around the living room and finally deciding on a new couch against one wall and a chair close to the fire (so Crowley could stay warm, not that Aziraphale wanted to admit that reason to himself). The TV was moved so it could be seen from both seats and Aziraphale had added a few more lamps and a coffee table.

Very homey and very comfortable.

He wiped sweat from his brow and went into the kitchen. He missed nice dinners at cute restaurants with interesting people to look at. Letting out a whine of irritation, he miracled some sandwiches to go with the wine he had brought back from the bookshop. Miracled food was never as good as the real thing though. Aziraphale secretly thought it was the love humans could put into the real stuff that made the difference.

Hesitantly, he went down the hall and knocked on the bedroom door. Silence. He fortified himself. He and Crowley needed to talk and they definitely needed alcohol to do it.

“Crowley?” he asked before twisting the knob and pushing open the door.

Crowley was laid down on top of the covers in black satin pajamas, on his side so Aziraphale couldn’t see his face. “I brought back a couple of very nice bottles of wine. I thought we could crack one open.”

Crowley looked at him over his shoulder, his face pulled taut by the movement as his sunglasses twisted slightly. “What kind?”

“A grenache,” Aziraphale replied, holding up the bottle.

Crowley stood from the bed as if he had to pour himself onto his feet, vertebrae stacking one at a time as he became upright. “You’ve convinced me.”

Aziraphale smiled in an effort to assuage some of his nervousness about the conversation that was yet to come. He felt as if his brain was rattling in his skull, refusing to settle until he said the words he’d been murmuring to himself all afternoon.

“I rearranged the living room. It’s a little more cozy if I do say so myself,” Aziraphale said, showing Crowley his work.

Crowley hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his pajama pants and sauntered in a circle about the room. Despite the warmth of the day not quite having faded, he snapped his fingers and lit the fire. “‘S’nice.”

Well, that was practically a roaring endorsement coming from Crowley. “Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale said, fiddling with the corner of his smock. “Would you pour the wine? I’d like to change.”

Crowley plucked the bottle from Aziraphale’s grasp and was already twisting a finger to work the cork out of the neck before Aziraphale could even leave the room. When he entered the twilight gloom of the bedroom, he took a deep breath before changing from his normal gardener clothes into a cozy jumper. It was lumpy and hideous but it was comfortable. He would need as much comfort as he could get.

Crowley handed him a glass of wine when he re-entered the living room. Aziraphale had expected him to make a smart comment about his choice of sweater but none were forthcoming. 

“So...how was London?” Crowley said, glass tilted to his mouth as he ran the rim over his lower lip.

Aziraphale took a fortifying sip of the wine. “The same.”

“What was your assignment?”

“Erm...well, it was less of an assignment and more—”

“I bloody _knew_ it,” Crowley hissed before slamming his cup down on the table next to the chair. “‘Sorry Crowley duty calls.’ You _lied.”_

“Yes, alright! I just needed a little space!” This was not how he had wanted to introduce the topic. Not with Crowley furious and him backed into a corner. All the words he had practiced ran out of him like water through shaking hands.

“Oh? Space? Was _fifty years_ not enough space?”

Aziraphale desperately wished Crowley would take off his sunglasses. “Look, Crowley, this is as difficult for me as it is for you. Given our, erm, _difference of feeling_ about this relationship.” And that’s what it was, a yawning gap between them, Aziraphale loving Crowley in a way the demon didn’t want. 

At Crowley’s sudden intake of breath, Aziraphale rushed to continue, “I suppose I should give you the opportunity to think about what we’ve gotten ourselves into. That’s what I needed. Just a little time to figure out if I could handle this. And I’ve decided I can. The mission is more important than our...different feelings,” Aziraphale said, face burning as he pushed through the more difficult bits. He knew that his feelings probably made Crowley uncomfortable. That he didn't feel the same way. That he couldn't. Aziaphale had it under control.

Clenching his jaw, Crowley looked away, into the fire. He picked up his wine glass and drained it. “I’ve been handling our _difference of feeling_ for years,” he spat, mocking Aziraphale’s words. “Why would it matter now?”

His disgusted tone pierced Aziraphale’s heart and every unacknowledged hope he had cradled inside himself died. He should have known better than to think that Crowley could be kind about this. “Right, well...that’s settled then,” he said, choking on the words.

Crowley leaned back in his chair and waved him off. “You can have the bed. I won’t be sleeping tonight.”

“Are you sure—”

“Go to bed, Aziraphale.”

And so Aziraphale did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed by [ wingittofreedom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wingittofreedom/pseuds/WingittoFreedom)  
> media references cited in the end notes

_My heart’s aflutter! / I am standing in the bath tub / crying. Mother, mother / who am I? If he_

A scratching sound interrupted Aziraphale’s reading. He looked up and saw Crowley running his long nails over the arm of the chair. The noise sent a frisson of discomfort through Aziraphale’s spine.

_If he / will just come back once / and kiss me on the face / his coarse hair brush / my temple, it’s throbbing!_

Another, louder scratch. Aziraphale stood, snapping his book shut, louder than necessary, and left the living room, retreating to the kitchen where the natural light was better and where he wouldn’t have to deal with Crowley’s sullen demeanor.

The normally aloof demon had turned downright frosty since Aziraphale had practically declared his feelings and Crowley had acknowledged that he knew and dismissed them. Since then Crowley had stopped wearing anything other than his Nanny Ashtoreth outfit around the house, never removing his makeup or letting his hair down. Aziraphale assumed he did it to sleep, but he didn’t ask and the bedroom had become something of a no-go zone in the evenings. Aziraphale recognized armor when he saw it, and if Crowley needed it to be comfortable around him now that his feelings were out in the open, he would leave him be.

The most irritating thing was that he had taken to playing a record on the gramophone that was labeled “Fall Out Boy” and which produced the most awful caterwauling Aziraphale had ever heard. His tolerance for self expression through art only went so far, and he was beginning to suspect Crowley was doing it just to annoy him.

From the kitchen he heard the quiet scratch of the record before the opening chords of this “Fall Out Boy” echoed through the house.

_Am I more than you bargained for yet? / I’ve been dying to tell you anything you want to hear_

Aziraphale groaned. He was not going to stick around for this. Jamming his feet into his boots, he threw open the back door and stomped into the trees. 

_Cause that’s just who I am this week_

He slammed the door shut and let out an irritated yell. Walking into the rose garden, he ran directly into Ms. Dowling.

“Francis!” she said, smiling. Warlock was strapped to her chest, looking around with wide eyes. His face broke into a smile when he saw Francis.

“Warlock?” Harriet said, speaking to the baby as though he were a member of parliament and she was requesting an audience. “This is Francis.”

Aziraphale waved at the baby, more a wiggling of the fingers than anything. “We’ve met before. Lilith introduced us.”

“Of course,” Harriet said, doing a little bounce to get Warlock’s attention. “Nanny Ashtoreth has been an absolute godsend.”

 _Not exactly_ , Aziraphale thought ruefully.

“She’s so good with Warlock. Do you two have kids?”

Aziraphale thought about answering in the positive, just to spite Crowley, but he was going to rise above however Crowley was behaving. Patience was a virtue and if he acted normally, Crowley would come around eventually. Honestly, the demon was acting as if _he_ were the one being hurt by the whole thing when it was Aziraphale’s heart that had been so thoroughly crushed. Absolutely typical, the selfish bastard. “No, we never got around to it. Lily loves kids though. It’s why she got into this line of work.”

Harriet nodded. “I was never sure if Thaddeus and I would have kids. We’re both so busy. I’m glad we did though.”

Smiling, Aziraphale danced his fingers in front of Warlock who burbled and gave him a gummy grin. The innocence of it lifted his heart. Who knew the antichrist could look like _that?_

“Thaddeus will be in town for a few weeks next month,” Harriet said out of the blue.

Aziraphale tilted his head in question and she explained, “I was hoping we could all have dinner. At the main house. I’d love for him to meet Nanny Ashtoreth. Well, and you of course.”

Aziraphale nodded even as he wanted to make his excuses. Crowley’s warning about socializing flashed through his mind. Also, what would it be like to have this Crowley, this Nanny Ashtoreth, at his elbow, angry and silent and refusing to look him in the eye?

 _I should really say no_.

“Name the date!” he replied instead. Crowley was going to kill him.

“Really? Fantastic, I’ll set something up and let Nanny know,” she said, eyes bright.

Aziraphale smiled and hoped it didn’t look like a grimace, thinking about how he would break the news to the irascible demon currently throwing a tantrum on his couch.

**

Unfortunately, Aziraphale didn’t get the chance to tell Crowley before Harriet did. 

Crowley had been working at the house very late, perhaps to avoid Aziraphale, or simply because Harriet was working longer hours. Aziraphale didn’t know and he wasn’t about to ask.

So he wasn’t exactly surprised when Crowley marched into the house and stood in front of where Aziraphale was sitting on the couch, glaring down at him with a truly magnificent scowl. Aziraphale took off his reading glasses and set them on the end table. “Yes?”

“Dinner? With the Dowlings?” Crowley asked, harsh and mocking.

“Harriet asked and I saw no reason to refuse,” Aziraphale replied calmly. Crowley could rail and cavil all he wanted but Aziraphale had done what was necessary.

“No reason?” Crowley squawked and Aziraphale gestured to the chair across from him.

“Why don’t you sit down, my dear? All your looming is making me uncomfortable.”

Crowley groaned but took a seat, making his opinion known by the dramatic angle of his slump.

Aziraphale did _not_ roll his eyes. “I did my best in the situation I was in. I want you to trust me in this. Do you think you can do that?”

Crowley’s deep frown softened a little. “Yes, Aziraphale, I can do that.”

“You’ll see, we’ll be fine.”

**

Despite his assurance, Aziraphale was a bit nervous when the agreed upon date actually arrived.

The night of the dinner, Crowley spent extra time on his hair, leaving it down in an effort to look less severe. Aziraphale groused over his lack of nice clothes but settled on his least baggy shirt and clean trousers.

When they arrived at the house, Pearson showed them to a sitting room that Aziraphale had never seen. One of the walls was lined with books. Having gravitated towards them without realizing it, he almost missed the presence of the Dowlings when they came in.

“Francis! Nanny!” Harriet said, sounding happier than Aziraphale had ever heard her. “Meet my husband, Thaddeus Dowling.”

A thick man with large hands stood and said in a booming voice, “Pleasure to meet you. My wife has raved about your work.”

Nanny Ashtoreth took his hand delicately. “I’m glad to finally meet you, sir.”

“Call me Tad,” he said, still booming. _Very American_ , Aziraphale thought wryly.

Tad’s eyes flicked between Francis and Nanny Ashtoreth, a crease appearing between them. “You two make an...interesting couple.”

Well, that was rude...if technically correct in a way this man’s surface judgement hadn’t been intended. Feeling suddenly defensive of their imaginary characters' lives, Aziraphale decided that maybe this _Tad_ deserved a little demonstration to be set right. The very in love nanny and gardener. Curling an arm around Crowley’s back, he settled his hand on his hip, giving it a squeeze. He felt Crowley tense beside him.

“I’m lucky a woman like Lilith was ever interested in me. Gorgeous thing she is,” he said, willing Crowley to understand what he was playing at as he gazed up at his “wife” with wide, hopefully lovestruck looking eyes. Crowley looked down at him, eyebrows climbing before his mouth cracked into a smile that Aziraphale didn’t know how anyone could think was genuine. But humans could be rather dim.

“You’re such a charmer, Francis,” he said before tapping a long finger on Aziraphale’s nose, causing him to blink. 

“She’s a wily one,” he said to the Dowlings, still looking at Nanny Ashtoreth like he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Which was much less of an act than he’d like to admit, his heart still skipping in a way he couldn’t control. But since their difficult conversation, Aziraphale felt he was doing better. Loving didn’t _hurt_ quite so much.

“How long have you two been married?” Tad asked, sounding a little uncomfortable.

 _Serves you right_.

“Twenty years,” Aziraphale answered proudly, rising on his tiptoes to press a kiss against Crowley’s cool cheek. Oh, there was the twist of his stomach. He supposed it was too much to expect _all_ of the shame to miraculously disappear after one conversation.

Not that he wanted to have another one.

No, he’d prefer to never discuss it again. 

“You two are adorable,” Harriet said, sounding wistful so Aziraphale gave her a dopey smile.

“They’re _something_ ,” Tad murmured, probably thinking Aziraphale couldn’t hear. 

Apparently Warlock was down for a nap, the baby monitor perched on the coffee table and when Tad offered them drinks, Aziraphale found out that Nanny Ashtoreth favored whiskey neat just like Mr. Dowling. Aziraphale tried not to listen in while they fell into a low but somewhat heated discussion about the benefits of bourbon versus scotch. 

Harriet took a seat beside him on what had to be a very expensive—and equally uncomfortable—sofa. Gazing at her husband, she looked a little sad. It was an expression Aziraphale was familiar with. 

“You really love him,” Aziraphale said quietly. He knew it was true. He could sense it.

Smiling tightly Harriet nodded. “It’s hard. He’s gone a lot.”

“I’m sure he loves you just as much,” Aziraphale said, patting her knee where it was covered by the poof of her cocktail dress. 

She looked up at him, eyes shining. “And you and Nanny?”

“Of course I love her,” Aziraphale confessed. His stomach twisted as he said the words. Of course he loved Crowley. Loved him as a demon. As Nanny Ashtoreth. As _Crowley_. At this point in his existence, his love of Crowley was simply a part of him, as integral as breathing. 

How utterly depressing.

“I think she’s a little sad, you know,” Harriet said thoughtfully. “She’s been spending more time at the house. With Warlock. Even when I get home, she sticks around, helping me with the baby or finding things to do in the kitchen. Is everything alright? Between you two?”

Francis looked down at his toes. He wished he had taken Harriet up on her offer of a cocktail. “We had a row a few weeks back.”

Harriet’s eyebrows drew together. “What about?”

Aziraphale cast about for the right thing to say. What did couples fight about? Oh, he hated lying. “How much time we spend together,” he said, a half truth.

“Does Lilith need some extra time off? I can make sure she doesn’t stay late. I know she’s attached to Warlock but I really can take care of him in the evenings, it’s not like I ask her—”

Aziraphale patted her leg again. “It’s not your fault, dear. Lilith and I have known each other a long time. Arguments happen.”

Harriet was about to respond when a cry erupted from the baby monitor, making her jump to attention. Aziraphale put a hand out. “If you don’t mind, I can go.”

Nanny Ashtoreth was already halfway out of the room so Harriet nodded, gesturing for him to follow after.

When Aziraphale finally reached Warlock’s room, Crowley already had the baby snuggled against his chest. He was humming a low melody that Aziraphale didn’t recognize.

Aziraphale hoped that it wasn’t more “Fall Out Boy.” Though Aziraphale didn’t think such a horrific musician could produce something so soothing.

“Can I see him?” Aziraphale asked quietly and Crowley turned around, a look of surprise on his face.

Somewhat reluctantly, he gave Aziraphale the baby, whatever proprietary feelings he felt towards Warlock probably giving way to the knowledge that Francis would need to spend more time with him according to their current Arrangement.

“Hullo, my sweet boy,” Aziraphale murmured, settling into the rocking chair by the window. “Did you know that God loves you as much as I do?”

Aziraphale heard Crowley’s quiet snort, but he ignored it.

Warlock continued to wail as Aziraphale rocked back and forth, the motion eventually soothing Warlock’s cries into low hiccups. “What do you need, sweetheart?”

“He’s hungry,” Crowley said and Aziraphale looked up, to see a an expression of heart-breaking softness on the demon's face.“Do you have any f—”

Crowley nodded before walking over to a small cabinet that revealed a fridge; he pulled out a bottle and Aziraphale felt an echo of power as Crowley heated it in his hand.

“Do you want to—”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, snatching the bottle from Crowley before he could snatch the baby. He teased at Warlock’s mouth with the bottle and the baby swiftly latched on, sucking like his life depended on it. A giggle burst from Aziraphale. “He’s cute.”

“He is,” Crowley agreed, standing so close that Aziraphale could feel his breath as he reached out to brush the fine hairs on Warlock’s head and suddenly it was too much.

“I miss you,” Aziraphale blurted. 

Crowley took a step back, looking horrified and Aziraphale hurried to fix his blunder.

“No, I just mean. We were friends, weren’t we? Well, almost friends. I miss that,” he said, unable to look at Crowley.

“We’re still friends, angel,” Crowley said and Aziraphale felt his eyes moisten embarrassingly. Crowley hadn’t called him angel since that disastrous conversation weeks ago. 

_I am not going to cry on a baby_ , he told himself resolutely, blinking his eyes quickly.

“Then can we try again? All other feelings aside?” Aziraphale asked. 

When he darted a glance at the demon, he found his face cast in shadow, impossible to read with those infernal glasses hiding his eyes. 

It was silent for a long moment, the quiet sounds of Warlock eating the only noise in the room. Crowley broke through it with a sigh. “Of course. Whatever you want.”

Aziraphale thought he sounded tired. It _had_ been a long couple of weeks especially with all the extra hours Crowley had been working.

Once they had put Warlock back down, babbling happily into sleep, they stood for a moment, watching him.

“You know, Harriet thinks we have marital problems,” Aziraphale whispered conspiratorially.

“What?” Crowley said, aghast.

Aziraphale looked at him from the corner of his eye. “Well, with all your recent behavior, apparently she thought we were on the rocks.”

Crowley humphed. “It’s not good that she’s asking so many questions.”

“That’s what I was thinking. It might be wise to, erm, act a bit more like a couple.”

Crowley tugged him out of the room and into the hallway, not wanting to disturb the baby. “What did you have in mind?”

“I think it would be better if I surprised you, don’t you _sweetpea?_ More authentic,” Aziraphale said with a little smirk before walking off. 

“Aziraphale! What does that mean? Aziraphale??”

Aziraphale snickered as he returned to the Dowlings. Some friendly teasing might be just the thing to get them back on track. It had always worked before.

**

“So how did you two meet?” Harriet asked, fork poised above her salmon. It was delicious. Aziraphale hadn’t had such good food in months. Not since he had come to the Dowling estate. He’d missed it.

“In a garden,” Crowley said, all sweetness as he reached out to squeeze Aziraphale’s leg, a look in his eye that made it clear he was out to punish Aziraphale for his earlier threat.

“Really?” Harriet asked. “That sounds romantic.”

“It was quite the opposite,” Aziraphale interjected, attention still on the place where Crowley had touched him, even though he’d removed his hand. The demon could absolutely _not_ be allowed to have all the fun. “I’d misplaced my trowel and was so worried, covered in mud and looking a fright. Lilith here saw me and asked to help and well, I knew I was in love.”

“I hate to break it to you,” Tad said, knife scraping on the china. “But that sounds pretty romantic.”

Harriet giggled. “Tad’s right you know.”

“There’s nothing romantic about that much mud,” Aziraphale retorted, pointing at Tad with his fork.

“It was less romantic than you think,” Crowley said. _Thank you,_ Aziraphale thought. “He was so _utterly_ obtuse—” here Aziraphale instantly rescinded his gratitude “—he had no idea I was interested. I had to go back to that garden every day for a week before I finally decided I would have to make the first move.”

“Oh Tad was just the same,” Harriet said.

Tad made a noise of indignation. 

“What? You were!” she insisted. “I saw you at that party and you were so...I don’t know. I kept trying to spend time with you and it took you forever to realize I was interested.”

“To be fair, you’re far too good looking for me,” Tad said and Harriet blushed. “How was I supposed to believe you were interested?”

Aziraphale hid a smile behind his water. They really were in love. It was too bad that Harriet seemed to think Thaddeus didn’t love her the way she loved him. Though his dedication to his job to the exclusion of nearly everything else _was_ particularly distressing, a fact which became more evident as the conversation turned to his work. 

Crowley hummed along and asked polite questions even as Aziraphale began to tune him out. When dinner finished, they said their goodbyes, Harriet declaring that they would have to do it again. 

Together, they walked back to their little cottage and instead of wallowing in the awkward silence, Aziraphale pushed through. “That was quite nice. It’s been a long time since I’ve had such delicious food.

“A few months is hardly a long time.”

“It is if you’ve become accustomed to better eating than occasional sandwiches and crackers for as many millennia as I have,” Aziraphale retorted.

“You know you can miracle any food you want,” Crowley reminded him as the demon took a wrong step, his heel sinking into the mud causing him to stumble forward. Grasping his shoulders, Aziraphale tried to help him stay upright.

“Shit, shit,” Crowley spat, hopping on one foot.”Can you?”

Aziraphale nodded and knelt down to pluck the wayward shoe from the dirt. He set it on the cobblestone in front of Crowley who scowled as he slipped his foot back inside, a little hiss of pain slipping through his clenched teeth.

“Are you all right?” Aziraphale asked, immediately at Crowley’s elbow.

“Sprain,” Crowley answered, looking a little pale. 

“Well, can you…” Aziraphale said as he waggled his fingers in the direction of the sprain.

“Demonic powers don’t work like that. Doom and destruction and all that—you know the party line. I heal fast but I can’t heal my _self_ ,” Crowley said. 

“That seems counterproductive.”

“Trust me, I’ve lodged about a dozen complaints and nothing doing. The first time I fell off a horse and broke my leg Beelzebub said, and I quote, ‘Serves you right for being clumsy.’”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, flabbergasted once more by how _cruel_ demons could be. Well, not Crowley. Demons in general. Actually sometimes Crowley. “Let’s get you inside and figure something out.”

After helping Crowley hobble inside the cottage, Aziraphale stood in front of him, unsure of what to do. Crowley stuck out his leg from where he sat on the couch, looking pathetic. 

“Do you think I can heal it?” Aziraphale asked, reaching out his hands as if to try.

Crowley shrank into the cushions. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. What’s holy power going to do to a demon?”

“Let me try,” Aziraphale countered firmly, not liking the ghostly pallor of Crowley’s face. “Don’t be so dramatic my dear,” he admonished. Crowley really could work himself into such a lather over the littlest things.

Grimacing, Crowley tensed as Aziraphale grasped his foot, shooting a low pulse of power into the tendon. The demon screamed and promptly passed out. 

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,” Aziraphale repeated as he stood and looked around the room hoping for a solution to present itself. 

_What have I done?_

The sprain _did_ look better, no longer puffy, but, in an effort to give himself _something_ to do, Aziraphale went into the kitchen and retrieved an icepack, towel, and some bandages. And in a last minute hail mary, he filled a cup with cold water and returned to the living room where Crowley was still passed out against the couch cushions.

He set all the first aid items down and dipped his hand into the water, flicking drops at Crowley’s face. The demon stirred, his face contorting as his glasses slipped down to the tip of his nose, revealing his eyes when they fluttered open. “What the hell are you doing?”

Aziraphale dropped his very wet hand. “Erm, waking you up?”

“Please stop,” Crowley said, reaching up his hand to take off his sunglasses and wipe away the water. 

“Did it work?” 

When Crowley looked at him blankly Aziraphale pointed down at his ankle. 

Tilting his head, Crowley gave his foot a glare and rotated it. “Good.”

Aziraphale smiled widely, feeling proud that it had worked.

“But please, in the name of _everything_ , never try to heal me again.”

Biting his lip, Aziraphale nodded. “It wasn’t my intention to _hurt_ —”

“Well it felt like a thousand needles being stabbed into my foot so no thank you.” Crowley lifted up his foot into his lap and rubbed at the ankle bone. “Put a record on would you?”

Aziraphale huffed. Didn’t he deserve a _little_ gratitude?

“Please?” Crowley added, shaking his head like Aziraphale was being ridiculous.

“Fine. But none of that ‘Fall Out Boy’ nonsense. Honestly I don’t know how you listen to such _noise.”_

“That’s what I think about Mozart, but you think he’s the _bee’s knees_.”

“I never said that,” Aziraphale replied primly as he suppressed what would have surely been an idiotic smile. He’d missed this easy banter.

“‘Oh, Crowley, have you met Wolfgang? He has the most talented hands,’” Crowley opined in a high pitched impersonation of what he probably thought was a very posh accent.

“I’m certain I never said _that._ Why must you make everything sound so sordid?”

“What? Didn’t he have talented hands?”

“On a _piano_ , my dear. Besides, even if I were interested in such tawdry matters, he was very enamored of his wife,” Aziraphale said, flicking through the records for something they would both enjoy. Hmm, Ella Fitzgerald. He pulled the record from its sleeve, quickly fixing any warping or scratches with a small miracle and placing it on the tray before dropping the needle.

“Did you ever see her perform?” Crowley asked from the couch as the first strains of _Dream a Little Dream of Me_ filled the living room.

“I’ve avoided America for the most part,” Aziraphale answered, settling into the chair by the fire. It felt strange, like the room were reversed. Crowley almost never sat on the couch and Aziraphale had begun to think of the chair as Crowley’s implicitly.

“She was magical,” Crowley said, clearly caught up in some memory. “A lot of good music coming out of America. These days. Well, those days. The entire century really.”

“You know I prefer the classics. Ella included.”

Crowley snickered, the lines of his face easing. 

_Despite all his sharp angles, Crowley really is pleasant to look at._

Aziraphale chided himself. Thoughts like that wriggling their way into his head at the turn of the century were exactly what got him into trouble in the first place. 

“You can have the bed tonight, my dear.”

Crowley sank more deeply into the couch. “I think I feel like staying up.”

Maybe Crowley _had_ missed him. He smiled, a small thing he didn’t think Crowley would even notice. “We could get in to that second bottle I brought back from London,” he offered lightly.

“I’d like that.”

Crowley wasn’t exactly smiling, but he looked happier than he had in weeks. The final threads of the knot Aziraphale had been carrying in his stomach untangled and he felt something like peace. 

Leave it to the apocalypse to make everything all right between them.

**

“No! Listen!” Crowley said, Sss drug out between his teeth as he slurred through wine stained lips. 

The “Fall Out Boy” record warbled in the corner and Aziraphale winced. “I’m listening and it’s not impr—improo—getting better.”

Crowley put a hand up as if to shush him and began to bob his head in time to the music. 

_I don’t blame you for being you, but you can’t blame me for hating it_

“See!” Crowley said, eyes wide and expectant as if he had just made an impregnable case and Aziraphale could not possibly disagree with him. 

Accepting that Crowley would not let this lie, Aziraphale gave an ambivalent hum of acknowledgment.

“It’s the lyrics, angel, they really make you _feel_ it,” Crowley said, still weaving his head in a sort of dance even if it was a little off rhythm.

“We’ll have to aree, agree to dis...agree,” Aziraphale managed to say. His mouth was beginning to feel quite slow, his tongue not working quite right. 

A shaft of dawn light peeked through the living room window and startled Aziraphale. “Oh,” he said, flapping his hand at Crowley and pointing outside. “We should sober up. Morning.”

Crowley turned to scowl out the window. He looked something of a wreck, hair in disarray from running his fingers through it, blouse unbuttoned, hanging open over his chest. Certain he didn’t look much better, (he probably looked much worse) Aziraphale shifted his focus, sighing as all the alcohol left his blood stream, leaving him feeling woozy and out of sorts. 

“S’pose it wouldn’t do to work drunk,” Crowley said half to himself.

Aziraphale hefted himself to his feet to get some water from the kitchen. Pausing, he glanced at the rose still in its vase on the table. How long had it been? It should have died by now. Considering the possibilities, he filled two glasses and brought one back to press into Crowley’s hand. “Have you been replacing the rose in the kitchen?”

Crowley smacked his lips and took the water with a bleary grunt of thanks. “What?”

“The rose? On the table? It’s still alive but I cut it months ago.”

After draining the water glass with a few loud swallows, Crowley set it aside and looked out the window. “I dunno. I liked the way it looked. Wasn’t too much trouble to keep it alive.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. He took a drink of water to soothe his suddenly very dry mouth. “That was nice of you.”

Scowling, Crowley stood up and grumbled, “I’m not nice.”

Aziraphale smirked as Crowley left the room. “Keep telling yourself that,” he said into his cup so Crowley couldn’t hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> songs referenced in this chapter are (obviously) [Sugar We're Going Down](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_2eTNxPxXRc) and [A Little Less Sixteen Candles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l_2uMKKswdE) by Fall Out Boy  
> song referenced later is [Dream a Little Dream of Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j6TmogXhOZ8) by Ella Fitzgerald  
> Poem referenced is [Mayakovsky](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/53219/mayakovsky) by Frank O'Hara which is a poem that SLAYS me
> 
> I didnt want to leave the fic for too long on the last chapter but had some delays in my editing which prevented me from posting earlier today!  
> As of now, weekly chapter updates seem in the forecast until the fic is totally written the posting schedule will speed up. Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rating upped. i didnt think this would hit explicit. alas...
> 
> see endnotes for chapter specific content warnings
> 
> beta'ed by [ixcanul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wingittofreedom/pseuds/ixcanul)

Aziraphale stared at the crowded flowerbed, feeling rather lost. 

What kind of flowers would Crowley like?

Or, more accurately, what kind of flowers would Nanny Ashtoreth like?

With Harriet watching their relationship like the surprisingly perceptive hawk Aziraphale was finding her to be, he was trying to make good on his promise to act more like a couple. Well, Crowley would probably categorize it as a threat but as an angel, Aziraphale was trying to cast the whole situation in a more positive light. Things were difficult enough as it was without all of Crowley’s doom and gloom. 

And so Aziraphale was struggling with flowers. Choosing a bloom was particularly difficult given the fact that he had no idea how to woo the “Nanny” that the person he _was_ in love with was pretending to be. Layers on layers, and far too complicated for Aziraphale’s sense of romance.

He clipped a marigold. Start simple, he reminded himself, tucking the shears into the pocket of his smock before leaving the garden in search of Nanny Ashtoreth. 

He found her reading to the baby in the front yard spread out on a gingham blanket. The changing fall leaves made quite the picture, Nanny Ashtoreth seated on the blanket, a black pinpoint in a sea of orange and red. She looked up at him as he approached and Aziraphale did his best to channel what he knew of “Francis.”

“Hallo, sweet pea. I heard you were outside,” Francis said. “I brought you a flower.”

Kneeling down on the blanket, Francis pulled the flower out from behind his back and presented it to Nanny Ashtoreth who looked down her long nose at it. “That’s lovely, Francis,” she said in the same way one might say “get that disgusting thing out of my face.”

“Here, let me,” Francis continued as though he had not heard the intended meaning, kneeling down on the blanket and tucking the stem of the flower behind Lilith’s hair. “Beautiful.”

Crowley met Aziraphale’s eyes and something flashed between them; a challenge that made Aziraphale realize he was absolutely going to regret this little show. The demon reached up and touched the bloom and all of Crowley disappeared once more, entirely replaced with Nanny Ashtoreth. “What’s gotten into you? You’re being positively romantic,” she asked, reaching out to take his hand where it was pressed into the blanket. 

“The flower reminded me of you,” Francis said. Aziraphale wanted to groan. He’d read too many romance novels in the last century and now he was paying the price; this was sappier than he had intended. Crowley was going to give him hell.

“That’s very sweet,” she said before leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. As she pulled away, she hissed, “If you ever put a _marigold_ in my hair again, I will strangle you in your sleep.”

Oh that wasn’t Lilith that was definitely Crowley.

Nanny Ashtoreth sat up straight and then tapped her cheek. “You’ve got lipstick, dearie.”

Aziraphale swiped at his face and his fingers came away with a red streak. He wiped it on the blanket it in a fit of pique. “All clean,” he said with a wide smile that Nanny Ashtoreth returned with one of her own, venomous where his was innocent.

“See you at the cottage,” Francis said brightly before turning his attention to Warlock for a brief goodbye while Lilith stared daggers into his back.

For the rest of the day Aziraphale found himself sweating a little more than usual.

**

“A marigold?” Crowley said the minute the cottage door was shut behind him. Aziraphale looked up from his reading just as the offending flower was hurled into his lap.

“I don’t see the problem,” Aziraphale said a trifle meekly, trying not to sound as hurt as he felt. Honestly, marigolds were beautiful. And he was _trying_.

Crowley crossed his arms over his chest, the seams of his brocade jacket straining against his thin shoulders. “Did you smell it?”

“What?”

“Have you ever smelled a marigold? Put your nose right up in it?”

Aziraphale shook his head.

“Worst smelling flower in existence. And I had to leave it in my hair _for hours_.”

 _Oh no,_ Aziraphale thought, a touch despondent. He really hadn’t realized.

“Look, I’m sorry. What would you prefer?”

“I don’t know Aziraphale,” Crowley sneered. “Any one of the _dozens_ of flowers in the garden maybe?”

“No need to get snippy,” Aziraphale said, adjusting his seat to get more comfortable on the couch since Crowley’s aggressive behavior was beginning to make him feel boxed in. “Did Harriet at least see you with it?”

“I made sure she did when she came home from the office.”

“Then at least the effort wasn’t for naught,” Aziraphale said, once more finding his positivity.

Grimacing, Crowley collapsed into the chair by the fire. With the cold weather settling in and the cottage old and drafty, Aziraphale had made sure it was blazing before Crowley came home. Just to warm up the house so Aziraphale was more cozy of course. No other reason.

“Harriet said the Dowlings are going to America in November. For the holidays,” Crowley said, stretching out the last word like it was the silliest thing he had ever heard. Well, Aziraphale supposed that the time of year celebrating the Almighty could be a potential sore spot for a demon.

“Apparently, we’re welcome to stay here. Celebrate however we like,” Crowley said, a timid note to his voice that Aziraphale didn’t recognize. It seemed strange that Crowley would even consider celebrating Christmas.

“Perhaps it would be a good time to take a break. Get back to the city. Do some actual work,” Aziraphale pondered. December was always a good time for miracles.

“Of course, yeah,” Crowley agreed quickly.

Aziraphale hummed and went back to his book, already thinking on all the things he could get done around the shop. Though the holidays _were_ a busy time of year. People were always trying to buy his books. He shivered at the mere thought of it.

Crowley broke the silence. “What should Warlock be for Halloween?”

Aziraphale head snapped up so fast that his vision blurred. “Halloween? You know the heavenly host doesn’t go in for that sort of thing. Too demonic.”

“Yes, well, Americans do and Harriet asked me to put a costume together for Warlock so I’m asking you. Halloween costumes? Ideas?”

“Shouldn’t you be the expert?” Aziraphale said. Talking about a pagan holiday made him feel uncomfortable. 

Crowley bared his teeth. “What? Because I’m a demon?”

“Yes because you’re a demon!”

“That’s stereotyping.”

“Ugh,” Aziraphale said in exasperation. “Do something traditional then. A witch or a pumpkin. Or even a cat.”

“A little cute for the antichrist don’t you think?” Crowley replied, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

“You asked for my opinion and I’m giving it,” Aziraphale said sharply. 

A smile that Aziraphale decidedly did not like slid over Crowley’s face. “I think I have an idea.”

**

“Very funny, Crowley,” Aziraphale groused as he took in the scene. The demon gave him a broad, fake smile and manipulated Warlock’s hand to have him wave at Aziraphale.

“Say hello to Francis, angel,” Crowley said to the baby, dressed in white robes and little plush wings. 

Crowley must have thought he was the epitome of humor, dressing Warlock as angel. His protestations about Aziraphale’s ideas being too cute apparently thrown out the window for the sake of needling him.

People milled about the sitting room in various states of costume. Some deferred to the more scandalous tradition of Halloween and were more undressed than dressed. Others were simply in costumes, pretending to be what they weren’t. 

And they were all well on their way to getting sloshed.

Crowley himself had dressed as the devil, a shapely knee length red satin dress and fishnets tight over smooth legs that Aziraphale hadn’t even known he shaved. Perhaps Crowley always shaved his legs. And that’s how he fit into those ridiculously tight pants.

Suffice it to say that Crowley looked something of a dish while Aziraphale had dressed as a pirate in a loose shirt and vest, tripoint hat perched on his head, a counterpoint to the shiny red horns that peeked out of Nanny Ashtoreth’s crimson victory rolls. 

Seeing Aziraphale’s look, Crowley grinned. “Like what you see, Francis?” he asked, catching his tongue behind his teeth and waggling his eyebrows in some bastardized form of flirtation.

Aziraphale made eye contact with Harriet across the sea of people. She was dressed as a French maid and Tad was by her side dressed as...Theodore Roosevelt? Aziraphale hadn’t the faintest idea. She gave him a wave and Aziraphale succumbed to the urge to give Crowley a taste of the torture he seemed to delight in submitting Aziraphale to.

“Very sexy,” Aziraphale replied, reaching around his _wife_ to pluck at the tail attached to the back of the dress, grazing Crowley’s bottom with his hand. Flirtation indeed. Crowley made a noise like someone had abruptly set him on fire. 

“What are you doing?” Crowley croaked.

“Flirting with my wife,” Aziraphale said, slurping at his drink innocently. It was some hideous purple concoction that, while quite strong, tasted horrible; oversweet and medicinal.

Turning back to the room and ignoring Crowley’s glare and muttered retort, Aziraphale counted two other people with children. Two women with a toddler and a man who seemed to be alone holding a very small baby dressed as a pumpkin. Warlock was handling the hubbub fairly well, but Aziraphale had become acquainted enough with the baby to know it wouldn’t last.

Harriet appeared at Aziraphale’s elbow, clearly tipsy, her hands fluttering against his arm as he let her lean on him. “I haven’t drank in over a _year_ Francis and this is _strong_ . And also _gross_.”

Crowley laughed quietly and Harriet pointed a finger at him. “Are you laughing at me Nanny?” she said. “I should be laughing at _you_. I saw your husband grab your ass. Hell, I’d grab your ass. It’s looks _good_.”

“Francis, I think our employer is trying to make a pass at me,” Crowley whispered conspiratorially to Aziraphale, still laughing. 

Harriet gasped. “I would _never_. I’m just saying that you—”

“Don’t worry, Harriet,” Crowley said flapping his hand at her. “My ass does look fantastic.”

That made Harriet break out in a fit of giggles. “Lilith, I am _so_ glad we hired you. You’re the best.”

She took a deep breath and they both waited as she worked through what she wanted to say. “And you! Francis! It’s sooo great to see you and Nanny doing so well. I knew you two just needed to have sex. It’s the sex that really makes a relationship last, you know.”

Turning redder by the second, Aziraphale tried to block out the images that flashed through his mind— _Crowley’s legs wrapped in fishnets, a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a satin nightgown, the cut of a blazer across his shoulders_.

Aziraphale very, very rarely had occasion to remember he inhabited a male body that was equipped with certain parts that had certain interests and on those very rare occasions, he was always surprised when those parts made themselves known.

 _Oh_.

Tearing his eyes away from the way the red fabric of Nanny Ashtoreth’s dress clung to Crowley’s hips, Aziraphale clenched his fists at his sides, the pain of his nails digging into the flesh of his palms a welcome distraction.

“Let’s get you some water, dear,” Aziraphale said, handing his drink off to Crowley who shifted Warlock on his hip in order to take it.

Harriet pouted but followed Aziraphale to the snack table. He pressed a bottle of water and a cup of pretzels into her hands. “Eat these and drink that or you’ll regret it in the morning.”

Her eyes turned wide as saucers and started shining like she might cry. “Why are you so _nice?_ ”

“Because I like you, Harriet dear,” Aziraphale said simply before leading his employer back to her husband. Besides, being nice was Aziraphale’s job.

“Harriet!” Tad bellowed, clearly also a little drunk. “Ben was just telling a _hilarious_ story about his hunting dogs. Ben—tell it again!”

Tad reached out and pulled Harriet against his side, tucking her close as she looked up at him, full of adoration. Aziraphale’s heart gave a tug, a moment of envy. If only he could be so open with his affections.

Aziraphale returned to Crowley with his own water bottle, deciding that the punch just wasn’t worth putting up with the taste. 

“Well, it’s been fun, but Warlock needs to go down for the night,” Crowley commented over the beginnings of what sounded like a hearty tantrum. 

Aziraphale nodded. “I might retire as well.”

“Good night, dearie,” Crowley said, leaning over and Aziraphale expected a peck on the cheek as they’d started using that expression of affection somewhat frequently. 

Instead, Crowley pressed an open mouth smack onto the place where his jaw met his ear and licked over his sideburn, leaving a trail of very wet saliva behind.

Aziraphale wiped at it and his hand came away sticky. “Really, Cr-Lilith. Don’t be childish.”

“Oh ho ho, the pot calls the kettle,” Crowley jeered in his lilting brogue before he was interrupted by a renewed wail from Warlock. Watching Crowley saunter up the stairs, Aziraphale sighed before getting up to head for the door.

After a walk through the brisk night air, Aziraphale reached the cottage. As always, the dark interior was a respite from the hustle and bustle of the Dowling estate. Inside, Aziraphale allowed himself to change back into his normal form, the odd events of the evening still buzzing under his skin, reminding him of how strange he felt in Francis’s body.

Rolling his shoulders he looked down at his baggy shirt, now even baggier after he had shrunk back to his normal size. “Sorry, Francis. I’ll see you in the morning,” he said, patting his belly, still soft in all his favorite places.

Sighing as he collapsed into the dining room chair, his eyes sought the rose in the middle of the table.

He couldn’t get the image of Crowley out of his mind, hips swinging as he climbed the stairs, suggestive cant to his shoulders. 

_Remember how good he looked in that double-breasted suit_?

Aziraphale hushed himself. Of course he remembered. 

Angels weren’t supposed to feel lust. Not like this. Yes, love was allowed but after the whole nephilim debacle, physical love between angels and humans was strictly forbidden. There was no word on demons, but Aziraphale thought that was perhaps by omission and not implied permission, left out because it was simply too unthinkable. Certainly not.

His head dropped into his hands. He remembered it. That first time he looked at Crowley and really _saw_ , really thought about lips and hands and the dip of his collarbone. It was in that bar with that red lipstick, that drop waist dress. The smoke and the jazz and the _I can’t be here a second longer. I miss you I miss you I miss you_ —

A sliver of a Frank O’Hara poem drifted through his mind.

_The wheels are inside me are thundering. / They do not churn me, they are inside. / They were not oiled, they burn / with friction and out of my eyes / comes smoke_

Smoke indeed. He felt as if he were aflame.

Aziraphale miracled himself his favorite cheesecake from the Ritz—transported instead of spontaneously corporated, worth the extra burst of power for the real thing—and the best sauvignon blanc his mind could muster. Filling a glass, he settled in to the sound of crickets through the open window, a breeze shuffling through the lace curtains and cooling the kitchen to the point of discomfort. But he needed it. Anything to be less warm.

Anything to not think of Crowley.

The cheesecake very nearly succeeded but halfway through he remembered the first time he had tried cheesecake, a memory that was—like so many of the best ones—inextricably tied up in Crowley. The demon had brought him some. In the 1800s. With cherry jam. A temptation like so many other things. 

It had been delicious and Crowley had watched him devour every single bite, a smirk curling over his thin lips.

Aziraphale put down his fork and sighed again, appetite curdling. He would need to handle this.

And there was only one way he knew of doing so, although he’d never resorted to it before. He grimaced. How very human.

Might as well get it over with. He stood, chair scraping back across the tile, and marched into the bedroom, turning the lock behind him. Searching through his knowledge of how human men masturbated—he was fairly certain it was straight forward, hand, penis, stimulation, completion—he unbuttoned his trousers and fell into bed, the smell of Crowley’s lavender perfume already wreaking havoc on his tenuous control.

And, instead of pushing it down, for the first time, Aziraphale allowed himself to settle in the feeling of _want_ that pulsed low in his belly and up through his heart. _Just this once_ , a very serpentine voice whispered in the back of his mind.

He ignored it.

And continued on any way.

The first touch of his hand on his penis sent a thrill of discomfort and pleasure through him. Is this what humans did? He swallowed. How very...dirty.

Tugging his trousers and underpants down around his knees, Aziraphale wrapped his hand around himself and tugged experimentally. _Oh_.

He focused on the sensations both mysterious and pleasurable but his mind inevitably drifted to Crowley. If he were honest with himself, this was what he had expected. This is what he had wanted. A moment not to feel ashamed. Even if he would regret it.

And once the images began to flow, Aziraphale couldn’t stop them. Crowley’s hair pinned up like Nanny Ashtoreth. Swooping back in a low bun whenever he stopped playing the part. The pull of a satin slip across his shoulder blades. A red tie nestled beneath his adam’s apple. Lavender. Lavender. _Lavender_.

Aziraphale’s hand fisted in the quilt and he gasped as he spilled over his hand, the warm liquid cooling quickly on his pelvis as his release echoed through every nerve.

Shame was slow to arrive. He stood and wiped himself off, washing his hands in the bathroom sink where, upon gazing in the mirror, he found himself pink-cheeked and glassy eyed. Debauched was perhaps the word but he hated to think it.

He splashed water on his face before changing into his pajamas and returning to the living room. Crowley had expected to stay at the house all night since Harriet had been drinking. It had been agreed upon in advance and Aziraphale was glad of the extra time to pull himself together. 

Sitting in his corner of the couch, he lit the fire and finished his wine as he continued reading his O’Hara.

Caught up in the verses—and the very good wine—Aziraphale startled when the door shut. Crowley puttered in, looking a little bedraggled but still resplendent in his red satin. He kicked off his heels with no disregard for where they would land—an awful habit of his that Aziraphale found sorely trying—and yanked off his headband, tossing it on an end table.

“How was your evening?” Aziraphale asked smoothly even as his heart raced and his cheeks began to burn. He had _masturbated_ while Crowley was gone. What if the demon could sense it or see it in his face? 

“Once I got Warlock down, he did pretty well. ‘M glad to be home,” Crowley said, stretching back in his chair, his body naturally inclining towards the fire as if to soak up any additional heat.

 _Home._ Aziraphale supposed that’s what it was at this point. That didn’t stop it from shocking him to hear Crowley say it.

“What’s with the…” Crowley said, gesturing at Aziraphale.

The angel looked down and startled. He’d forgotten he changed. “Oh yes, I needed a bit of a break from Francis. Seemed a good night to do it. What with the revelry.”

Crowley rolled his eyes so dramatically that Aziraphale could read the gesture behind his glasses. “Revelry. Welcome to the 21st century. No one says that anymore.”

Aziraphale gave him a scathing look and then pointedly returned to his poems.

“I’m going to bed, angel. I won’t be going in until late. Keep the noise down, would you?”

“I will endeavor not to clang around the way certain _demons_ I know do.”

“Very kind of you,” Crowley sniffed, ignoring the dig in favor of standing and slinking out of the room.

Aziraphale let out a long breath. He was looking forward to a break from all this, grateful that, at least for now, his sin had gone undetected.

**

October turned to November and the Dowlings set off for the holidays leaving Aziraphale and Crowley to their own devices.

Aziraphale woke up on the 20th of November to find the demon gone, no note, no explanation. He assumed Crowley had gone off to London for work as they had discussed but he ignored the stab of hurt at the lack of communication. He’d thought they’d been getting better at that.

Taking the opportunity to be alone, Aziraphale miracled himself back to his bookshop and began the arduous task of dusting the back room which always seemed to collect the stuff no matter what he did.

The days passed and Aziraphale found himself still sleeping regularly and eating on the same schedule he had fallen into as Francis. But without Crowley constantly underfoot, a sense of boredom crept into everything he did. He began to wonder how he had spent the six millennia of his existence before living with Crowley. He’d never felt quite so out of sorts before.

Even though he didn’t admit it to himself, he kept expecting Crowley to drop by at any moment, take him to dinner or drinks and talk about their latest foibles. Just like they had before the holy water. But that had been over a century ago. Shame on Aziraphale for thinking that their living together had changed anything about their relationship. If anything, he was sure it had gotten worse. Ill timed confessions and rejections certainly at the forefront of Crowley’s mind.

Aziraphale knew he wasn’t anywhere close to forgetting the disgusted look on Crowley’s face when he had told him how he felt.

He sighed into his hot cocoa which had grown cold in his hand. Well, if Crowley didn’t want to spend time together then so be it. Aziraphale was 6000 years old and entirely capable of taking himself out to a nice dinner.

So, for the rest of December, Aziraphale visited his favorite restaurants, sushi at Masato’s and vol-au-vents at the bakery. Even splurging on the vegan restaurant across town which did the most exciting things with vegetables that Aziraphale had ever had the pleasure of encountering.

But when he returned to the cottage on the second of January, settling in for a long night with a book, and Crowley set a hot buttered rum by his elbow in lieu of a greeting, it was suddenly like he had never left.

He felt quite doomed.

Apocalypse not-withstanding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: aphobic comments (from an out of touch gen x mom), repression/shame associated with sex, brief dubcon groping, masturbation
> 
> media included in this chapter:  
> [ Grand Central ](https://pleasedonttakeit.tumblr.com/post/1428485530/inspiration-frank-oharas-grand-central) by Frank O'Hara  
> 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see end notes for referenced media and brief translation  
> beta'ed by [wingittofreedom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wingittofreedom)

Aziraphale was half talking to himself and half talking to the tomatoes in the greenhouse.

They were refusing to ripen, despite how polite he was being. 

With the holidays over and winter in full swing, he’d been doing more work in the greenhouse these days, but sometimes it seemed like a fruitless battle. 

“My dears, it's really very simple. If you would turn red within the next 24 hours, I would be in your debt,” he pled.

“That’s not at all how you should talk to plants, and _especially_ not tomatoes. You can’t be soft with them or they’ll think they can walk all over you,” Crowley said from the edge of the planter box. “They don’t respond unless you give ‘em a good what-for.”

Wiping his hands on his dirty smock, Aziraphale stood, ignoring the soreness in his knee from squatting for so long. Goodness, physical bodies were frail things. Crowley pushed the stroller over, revealing a sleeping Warlock. 

“How would you feel about going on a trip?” Crowley asked. 

Switching his attention from Warlock to Crowley, Aziraphale scowled. “We can’t exactly abandon our posts for recreation, Crowley.”

Crowley made an exasperated noise. “Lilith,” he corrected, “And I’m not asking, Francis. I’m telling. The Dowlings are going on a trip and therefore we’re going with them.”

“Why would I go?”

“I am the nanny so I go because baby. You are my husband so you go because me. Got it?” Crowley explained as if he were simple.

“Not precisely,” Aziraphale said, hesitant. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go on a trip; he’d just adjusted to the daily tasks of gardening after all and going somewhere new sounded stressful considering his chaotic feelings towards his frien—ene—coworker. It was never a good idea to travel in an unstable relationship.

Warlock made a noise like he was waking up so Crowley began to rock the stroller. “In the simplest terms, the Dowlings are going to Japan so _we_ are going to Japan. Best pack a bag, angel.”

Aziraphale dropped his gloves. “Japan?”

He’d always wanted to go to Japan. Unfortunately, he’d never been sent there and he’d been too busy to make the trip. 

“Would we have to...fly?” 

Aziraphale hated flying in planes. All the people and the shaking, the terrible food, and the _noise_. He’d rather fly there himself, but he didn’t think they could explain _that_ to the Dowlings.

“What do you think we’re going to do? Walk? Of course we’re going to fly. With the family. I’ll be taking care of Warlock.”

“Shouldn’t I stay behind though. To take care of the garden?” Aziraphale asked, a little nervous. 

Crowley shrugged. “First of all, it’s winter, and most of the plants will be dormant, and besides that, Harriet insisted you come along. Are you in or out?”

“I suppose I don’t really have a choice,” Aziraphale said, hands coming up to his hips in consternation as he cast a wistful glance over the greenhouse. “I just managed to get the peppers to behave.”

“Oh they’ll behave if they know what's good for them,” Crowley muttered, probably thinking Aziraphale couldn’t hear. 

“When are we leaving?”

“The first of February,” he said.

“That’s next week,” Aziraphale said with just a touch of hopelessness.

“You know, I thought you’d be excited. Sushi from the source and all,” Crowley said, cool as anything.

“Yes but I also don’t like travel on a moment’s notice. Well not human travel anyway,” he corrected, remembering the infamous ‘pop over to France’ incident which Crowley loved to remind him of. “It’s very uncomfortable.”

“If it makes you feel better it’ll be in the Dowlings’ private plane.”

Aziraphale’s nerves uncoiled minutely. “It does,” he admitted, still not convinced.

“Good. Now toddle on home. It’s getting dark.”

“Have _you_ been to Japan before?” Aziraphale asked archly, ignoring Crowley’s condescending tone.

“Once I think. Mid 14th—no—15th century. Dreary place.”

“Well, if you’d kept up with the times you’d know there’s more to Japan than sushi. We could see the art, the temples.”

“You want to see the temples? What do you think _G_ —the Almighty—would think of that?”

“It’s part of the culture, Crowley,” Aziraphale said loftily. Really, Crowley could be an complete philistine.

“All right, no need to get snappy.”

Aziraphale scoffed but as he bent down to pack up his tools and heard Crowley wheel the pram away, he allowed himself a smile. Everything was fine. It was better than fine. It was how things _used_ to be.

**

Looking glumly at the drab items in his suitcase, Aziraphale sighed. He turned his attention to Crowley who was neatly stacking beautiful blouse after beautiful blouse into his bag. “What?” Crowley asked, not looking up.

“Being a gardener is so boring,” he said, closing the lid of the suitcase with a click as the latch shut. “I miss my old clothes.”

Crowley chuckled. “The way you’re dressing now isn’t all _that_ different.”

“Excuse me!” Aziraphale blustered. “It absolutely is.”

How _dare_ Crowley insinuate that his shapeless smocks were anything like his well-tailored suits with their plush fabrics and—

Crowley shut his own suitcase with a snap. “You shouldn’t worry about it,” he said, putting his sunglasses on. “You look good like this too. Comfortable.”

Aziraphale blushed. “I—”

Crowley ruined Aziraphale’s chance to respond by breezing past him. “Hurry up, we’re supposed to meet the Dowlings at a quarter past the hour.”

Pushing down the inopportune swell of affection, Aziraphale hurried after him. 

Finally settled in the jet—which was simultaneously far too posh and too terrifying—Aziraphale settled in to his chair which was thankfully much more comfortable than any commercial airline he had ever been on. Then again, the last time he had flown was in the late 90s and it had been truly terrible.

Clenching his hands on his knees, he tried to remind himself that he had two weeks in Japan to look forward to—even if most of it would be spent in a hotel room with a 9 month old baby. It did little to dispel his anxiety about the flight to come.

“Afraid of flying Francis?” Tad boomed from the seats across from them.

“I don’t have much occasion to do it,” is what Aziraphale said but what he thought was _of course I am, bloody death traps masquerading as a form of transportation._

“It’s all right, dearie,” Crowley said, tucking Warlock against his hip with one hand while he reached out to pat the back of Aziraphale’s hand with the other.

Aziraphale grasped at it. Perhaps Crowley had not intended for that to happen but as the plane’s engines clicked on and they began to taxi, Aziraphale found the contact grounding. He squeezed Crowley’s fingers as they took off and when the cabin pressure shifted Warlock began to wail.

He reluctantly released Crowley’s hand and took a deep breath as the demon shushed Warlock. “Shhhh, it’s all right dearheart,” he whispered to Warlock.

When the plane leveled out, Crowley brought out Warlock’s favorite toys and they served as a good distraction for both the baby and Aziraphale.

“Do you see the little soldiers? Their guns go boom,” Crowley said, making a plastic toy dance in front of Warlock who grabbed at it with chubby fingers. 

“Boo-boo,” Warlock repeated and then clapped his hands.

Aziraphale snatched the soldier from Crowley’s hands and picked up the stuffed penguin he had purchased for Warlock months ago. “Mr. Penguin loves you Warlock. Do you love Mr. Penguin?” he asked before using the toy to tickle at Warlock’s belly.

The baby giggled and sank his hands into the soft fabric of the penguin. 

“You win this round,” Crowley said under his breath and handed over the baby. 

“You’re very good with Warlock,” Harriet said, drawing Aziraphale’s attention.

“Not as good as Lilith, but I like the wee ones. They’re so easy to entertain,” Aziraphale said, jiggling the penguin in front of Warlock who kept batting at it.

Harriet smiled and stood up to lift Warlock out of his lap, penguin and all. Crowley reached out and laced their fingers together again, his hand cool against Aziraphale’s sweaty palms. Leaning over, Crowley let his head rest on Aziraphales shoulder, hair tickling his cheek, the light lavender scent of him making Aziraphale’s heart race. 

_Loving couple, you’re a loving couple_ , Aziraphale repeated to himself as he willed his pulse into submission. 

“Thank you for coming, Francis,” Crowley said quietly, as if he were trying to make sure the Dowlings couldn’t hear. Of course they could hear, they were five feet away.

“Anything for you, sugar plum,” Aziraphale replied. Crowley’s grip on his fingers tightened to the point of pain and Aziraphale hid a wince in Nanny’s red curls. 

Aziraphale caught a small smile on Harriet’s face as she played with Warlock in her lap so he knew the little show had found its audience. 

Now, how long did they have to keep it up? The months since Halloween and been interspersed with similar performances of affection, all in the attempt to keep Harriet from sniffing around. It had worked so far but every time Crowley pressed a kiss to his cheek, or held his hand Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat. He was doing his best but sometimes it felt like more than he could manage.

Harriet and Tad retired to the small bed at the back of the plane and put Warlock down as well, leaving Crowley and Aziraphale alone in the main cabin.

As soon as Aziraphale heard Thaddeus’s low snores, he stood and crossed to the small bar at the front of the main cabin. He needed a drink.

“Want anything?” Aziraphale asked, gesturing with a bottle of Bombay.

Tugging at his blazer as if to straighten it—even though it was still absolutely perfect—Crowley joined him at the bar. “What’s on offer?”

“I’m making a gin and tonic but it looks fully stocked.”

“Make it two. Lime for me,” Crowley said. He sank back into his seat and kicked off his heels, stretching his feet, the toes encased in sheer nylons. “Love the way the heels look. Hate the way they feel.”

“I’m sure Ms. Dowling wouldn’t mind if you wore something more comfortable,” Aziraphale said, pouring a hearty shot of gin in each tumbler. 

“It’d ruin the outfit,” Crowley grumbled.

Topping off the gin with tonic water, Aziraphale shook his head but didn’t say anything before handing off Crowley’s drink.

“Will we really be with Warlock the entire time?”

“Probably,” Crowley said, kicking his feet up onto the wall and tilting his body in a way that looked wildly uncomfortable for anyone who hadn’t spent several lifetimes as a snake.

Leaving Crowley to sprawl in that way he seemed to prefer, Aziraphale took the seat opposite him.

“But don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’ll make sure you get some time out and about.”

“As long as we get equal time with the baby we can be in the hotel every minute of every day. This is a wonderful opportunity to influence him and I won’t have it spoiled.”

“Why does that sound like you think _I’m_ going to spoil it?”

Aziraphale gave him a meaningful look.

**

The suite only had one bed. 

Sinking down onto it, Aziraphale reflected that it made sense. The Dowling’s had reserved a suite. It had a master bedroom, a living room, a kitchen, and a slightly smaller bedroom. The nanny and the gardener had been given the latter and Aziraphale was currently mourning the death of what little privacy he had left.

He should have thought of this. Two weeks with the Dowlings non-stop meant no time alone. No space between him and Crowley.

And only one bed. One bed that two humans expected them to _sleep_ in every night.

Busy clanking around in the bathroom, Crowley was spared the sight of Aziraphale having a personal crisis on the white bedspread. 

“I might be up most of the night with Warlock. I’m not sure how he’ll handle the time difference,” Crowley said from the bathroom, his disembodied voice muddled as if he were applying lipstick.

“Well, I’ll be here,” Aziraphale squeaked.

Crowley came out of the bathroom with one eyebrow raised. “Are you alright, _sugar plum_?”

“I’m fine, _pumpkin_.”

“ _Honey.”_

 _“Peach_.”

“ _Honey bun.”_

Aziraphale clapped his hands and waggled his finger at Crowley. “Ha! You already said Honey!”

Rolling his eyes, Crowley picked up his sunglasses from where he had discarded them and put them back on. His lipstick was flawless. 

“Aw, don’t look like that puddin’ pie, baby cakes, my little peanut,” Aziraphale said, smile growing with each word as he approached Crowley and pinched his cheek. Crowley slapped away his hand.

“You think you’re funny but you’re not.”

“Whatever you say, sugar plum.”

Crowley left the room, mumbling under his breath about irritating angels who knew too much about food and culinary pet names, leaving Aziraphale alone with the bed and his own thoughts.

**

 _Now I am quietly waiting for / the catastrophe of my personality / to seem beautiful again, / and interesting, and modern_.

Aziraphale rubbed at his eyes. He’d read this before. _Mayakovsky,_ Frank O’Hara being tongue in cheek, laughing and mourning his laughter in the same breath.

_The country is grey and / brown and white in trees, / snows and skies of laughter / always diminishing, less funny / not just darker, not just grey._

He yawned. He hadn’t heard a peep out of Warlock in the other room but that didn’t mean he wasn’t awake, keeping Crowley working.

_It may be the coldest day of / the year, what does he think of / that? I mean, what do I? And if I do, / perhaps I am myself again._

Shutting the book, he closed his eyes briefly. He had wanted to stay awake but the stress of travel had finally sunk in. With a sigh, he crawled out of bed and set the book on the bedside table before going into the bathroom to brush his teeth. 

Standing in front of the mirror, he looked at himself—ruddy cheeks and unfashionable sideburns, a working man, a kind man. Picturing Nanny Ashtoreth in her unforgiving reds and blacks, he realized Thaddeus had the right of it. They _were_ an odd couple.

Aziraphale rinsed his mouth with water before returning to bed, curling onto his side around a spare pillow, the comforting weight of it lulling him into sleep. He was just drifting off when the snick of the lock drew his attention, and Crowley shuffled into the bedroom, clearly trying to be quiet. It was a small thing and shockingly considerate.

The light from the bathroom leaked through the cracked open door. Aziraphale listened to the run of water, a soft sigh before the brushing of teeth. When the demon slipped into bed beside him, Aziraphale pulled the pillow tight against his chest, trying to make himself as small as possible and pretending to be asleep as Crowley’s cool body settled into the mattress. 

Aziraphale ached with the desire to roll over and curl around him

But he didn’t—of course he didn’t—instead letting the drag tide of sleep pull him back under, Crowley’s breathing a soothing metronome at his back. 

Aziraphale really shouldn’t have been surprised that when he woke up, Crowley was plastered against him, arms wrapped tightly about his middle, all unforgiving edges and so delightfully real that Aziraphale wanted to crawl under a rock and _die_. Not surprising at all—not if you had lived for millennia and seen the way circumstance could toy with one’s emotions. Like a particularly malicious cat toying with a mouse it fully intended to eat.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered in hushed tones. This was simultaneously horrifying and electric and Aziraphale couldn’t stand another second.

“Mngp,” Crowley chirped but didn’t wake up.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale hissed, a little more urgent. When the demon didn’t respond, he cocked his elbow and jabbed it into Crowley’s side. “Wake _up_.”

Crowley made a garbled noise as he flopped onto his back, eyes snapping open and fixing Aziraphale with a betrayed look. “Oi! What was that for?”

“I needed to get up and you weren’t letting me,” Aziraphale said, rising up against the pillows and scowling as if it were _all_ Crowley’s fault, which it sort of was. 

“Well, go on then,” Crowley said. “I’m going back to sleep.”

Aziraphale tossed his pillow at Crowley’s face, causing him to splutter.

Ignoring Crowley’s cursing, Aziraphale went into the bathroom. The toilets in Japan were really a feat of human genius.

After a nice hot shower, Aziraphale dressed and went into the living room where Nanny Ashtoreth was busy feeding Warlock as Harriet and Thaddeus ate room service at the table.

“I was thinking we could go to Asakusa and Ginza today,” Harriet was saying, making notes on her laptop as Thaddeus read the New York Times. He looked up at his wife across the table.

“Which ones are those?”

“The biggest temple in Tokyo and the shopping district. I told you,” Harriet said, sounding impatient.

“Oh right. That sounds great,” Tad responded a little mechanically.

Harriet turned to Aziraphale and the tight lines about her eyes smoothed. “Would you like some breakfast, Francis?”

Aziraphale surveyed the spread, croissants, fruit, yogurt. 

Oh yes.

He nodded. “That’s very kind of you, Harriet.”

“I was thinking you and Nanny could come with us until Warlock needs to come back to rest. Maybe we could manage Asakusa?”

Aziraphale shot Crowley a look but the demon ignored him, burping the baby against his shoulder. “That sounds lovely but we don’t want to put you out. We could stay here.”

“Nonsense, you’re coming,” Harriet said and that was that.

**

They took a taxi from their hotel to Asakusa, Nanny Ashtoreth in the back with Warlock strapped to her chest in a Babybjorn, the image so ridiculous that Aziraphale had to keep stifling his laughter, occasionally catching Crowley glaring at him from behind his sunglasses.

But when Aziraphale stepped out of the taxi, he caught his breath, laughter forgotten. Stretched out in front of him was a sea of people milling between tents, the smell of fried food and sweet things filling the air. Steam from cooking filled the cold February air and Aziraphale took a delighted breath as he surveyed the tents that lined the road to the top of a low hill crowned with a beautiful red temple. 

“This is so cool!” Harriet exclaimed as she hefted the baby bag from the taxi and handed it off to Aziraphale. He shouldered it without complaint and trailed after Crowley who was speaking in a low voice to Warlock, pointing at various things as they walked. Coming up beside him, Aziraphale heard him say, “Look at all of them, you’ll be the king of everything. Snap your fingers and they’ll suffer.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Snap your fingers and you will bring them joy,” he said to counter Crowley’s sinister imaginings.

A smell hit his nostrils and he spun around, flapping his hand at Crowley’s wrist. “Crêpes!”

Harriet came up beside them and Crowley gave him an indulgent smile. “Where, dearie?”

Wrapping his fingers around Crowley’s forearm, Aziraphale dragged him off in the direction of the smell which revealed a tent with a myriad of delicious looking options. They were different than the French kind but they looked just as scrumptious.

“They have strawberry!” Aziraphale cried and Crowley gave him an indulgent smile that Aziraphale wasn’t sure was genuine or not. “Would you like to share some, _peanut_?” he asked viciously.

There it was. The smile turned sharp as a knife at Aziraphale’s endearment. “We both know I wouldn’t even get a bite,” Crowley replied, sweet as the confections in front of them.

Harriet tittered and ordered one for herself, struggling with the vendor’s broken English. 

Focused on the crêpes, without thinking, Aziraphale said, “ _Ichigo hitotsu onegaishimasu.”_

Nearly dropping the double chocolate crêpe in her hand, Harriet turned to Aziraphale. “You speak Japanese?”

Crowley glared at him over the top over Harriet’s head and mouthed something Aziraphale couldn’t make out. “Erm,” he said, “Well, I—”

“That’s very useful! I wish you’d said something. Thaddeus!” she cried, waving her husband over from where he was peering over a takoyaki stand, watching the vendor flip the little balls with chopsticks. 

“Yes?” he asked, wandering over.

“Francis speaks Japanese!” she said.

“That’s useful,” Thaddeus said, eyes wide with surprise. 

“Please, I just—I dabble,” Aziraphale said. He took the crêpe from the vendor, the perfectly cut strawberries calling to him and making it difficult for him to pay attention to the conversation at hand.

“I’d like to see the temple,” Tad said, dropping the subject much to Aziraphale’s relief. Now he could dig in to his crêpe without interruption. 

Harriet nodded and looked back at Francis and Nanny Ashtoreth. “Meet us up there?”

“Of course,” Nanny trilled.

Once the Dowlings were lost in the crowd, Crowley whirled on Aziraphale. “You couldn’t pretend not to know something for _once_ _in your life_?”

“It was an accident!” Aziraphale retorted petulantly, but the effect was somewhat ruined when he licked a stripe of whipped cream from the side of the crêpe, following it with a strawberry.

Crowley made a strangled noise.

“Look, I’m sorry, let’s go up to the temple. Do you want anything? I hear _ringo-ame_ is very good,” Aziraphale said with a smirk as he pointed at the stand of candied apples.

Following the direction of his gesture, Crowley asked, a little incredulous, “Are you offering me an _apple?”_

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale said innocently before he took a bite of his crêpe. “I thought you liked apples—though I could be misremembering. It was an awfully long time ago.”

Spluttering, Crowley followed after him as Aziraphale weaved through the tents looking at various tchotchkes. 

“Look Warlock, a sword!” Crowley said pointing at the weapon in question. The baby babbled happily and clapped his hands.

“Look Warlock, a cat!” Aziraphale said, directing Warlock’s attention to the white lucky cat in front of him as it slowly blinked and waved its arm back and forth.

He turned at the sound of his name and cooed at the cat. Scowling, Crowley waved his hand to divert Warlock’s attention. “You know you can’t always do that.”

“What?’ Aziraphale said, licking the remnants of whipped cream from his fingers. 

Making a strange noise somewhere between frustration and laughter, Crowley’s hand dropped to his side and out of Warlock’s range of vision. “You can’t—you can’t always say something to contradict me.”

“I can, and will. I don’t get as much time with Warlock, you know.”

They walked through the crowd which conveniently dispersed around them as they made their way up the steps to the temple proper. 

“Isn’t this astounding?” Aziraphale exclaimed, circling the wide red columns and tilting his face up toward the giant paper lantern that swung above the offering.

“It’s all right,” Crowley grumbled, but Aziraphale suspected he felt more than he was letting on—thoughts betrayed by the way he tilted his head back to take in everything as he put his hand on Warlock’s back where the baby was pressed against his chest.

Harriet and Thaddeus came up beside them. “Interesting place,” Thaddeus said, his voice somehow echoing in the building even though it was full of people.

Harriet nodded enthusiastically. “Could you take our picture?” she asked Aziraphale. Nodding automatically, Aziraphale watched as she fiddled in the baby’s bag on his hip and pulled out a camera he had no idea what to do with.

“Best let me,” Nanny said, plucking the camera from Aziraphale’s hands. He was secretly thankful that he wouldn’t have to figure out how to work the thing. Demons always seemed to be better at understanding how to work certain kinds of technology—at least the sort that flashed, made loud noises, or exploded. 

After taking Warlock out of the Babybjorn, Harriet arranged her little family the way she liked: with herself tucked into Mr. Dowling’s side and the baby perched on her hip.

"Alright, pretend to be happy," Crowley deadpanned, as he positioned the camera, causing Harriet to burst into laughter and even wringing a genuine smile out of Tad. Warlock, who was half asleep and probably wouldn’t have understood what Crowley was saying even if he were awake, was unfazed

Crowley snapped a few more pictures before Harriet offered to take one of Francis and Lilith. Not really seeing how he could refuse, they lined up on the steps around the temple and Aziraphale put his arm around Crowley, feeling awkward. Crowley was always a little taller than him, no more than an inch or two, but in heels, Aziraphale did feel a mite short, his shapeless outfit feeling even more unfashionable next to Crowley’s well tailored blazer and skirt. Despite his larger girth, Crowley managed to tuck Aziraphale in, the curves of his body giving way to Crowley’s angles. For a moment, Aziraphale got caught up in the charade and felt safe, loved.

“Say cheese!” Harriet cried and Aziraphale forced a smile, (“ _pretend to be happy,”_ ) untangling himself from Crowley the minute the picture was taken.

Crowley took Warlock back from where he was settled in Thaddeus’s arms and safely ensconced him against his chest once more, making sure his hat was tucked around his vulnerable ears. “I think the wee one needs to go down for a nap. Would it be all right if we went back to the hotel?”

Harriet hurried over to where Nanny Ashtoreth stood and peeked down at Warlock’s face. It was scrunched up, clearly on the verge of crying. “I suppose it’s been a lot of excitement. Let’s get you a cab.”

Thaddeus led them through the crowd and Harriet fell back to walk next to Aziraphale. “You know, I spoke to Hiro.”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale asked, a little absentmindedly as he had been distracted by a certain vend—all right he’d been distracted by the way Crowley looked walking in front of him, his legs in those heels—

“Hiro said your anniversary was this month but he didn’t know what date. I wanted to make sure you had some time to celebrate. You two seem to be doing better, but I’d hate for you to miss it just because you’re here with us.”

Aziraphale panicked, brain short-circuiting as he tried to remember such a conversation with Hiro. Had he said that? Oh dear, he had. What was he going to say to Harriet? To Crowley?

“Yes! Er, our anniversary…” he said trying to give himself time to figure out what date he should choose. “It’s the...30th. Of February.”

Harriet’s brows furrowed. “The 30th?”

Oh bother, February was one of those awkward months. “The 30th? Oh I meant to say the _13th_ ,” he corrected, trying to play up Francis’s general wide-eyed demeanor.

It must have worked because Harriet’s suspicion morphed quickly into concern. “That’s next week. Do you have anything planned?”

Damn her prying—oh fudge. Bless her pry—Aziraphale suppressed a _very_ loud groan.

“Well I did but with the Japan trip I thought we’d wait to celebrate,” he said, hoping that sounded reasonable.

“Don’t wait on our account! I can make sure to take Warlock and give you the evening to do—”

“Harriet!” Tad cried from the curb, distracting her from whatever she was going to say. Aziraphale relaxed and followed Crowley as he ducked into a taxi, shushing Warlock when he began to cry.

“We’ll be back at the hotel in a few hours. Call if you need anything!” Harriet said, waving enthusiastically as they drove off.

Aziraphale leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes.

**

They spent the rest of the afternoon with Warlock, alternating between watching him sleep and trying to keep up his mood with toys and babble. Crowley told him stories about war and bloodshed and then Aziraphale would take over with a story about true love and self-sacrifice, which were sometimes so full of feeling that Crowley would make gagging noises from the couch.

The Dowlings came back a few hours later, laden with bags. Harriet made a beeline for Warlock and picked up his stuffed penguin, dancing it in front of him to get his attention. “Nanny—if you’d like to take a break, I want to spend some time with Warlock. Maybe you and Francis could go get a late lunch? I’ll need to get some work done this afternoon so don’t take too long.”

Thaddeus walked up to his wife and pressed a kiss to her hair. “Speaking of work, I have a call scheduled. I’ll take it from the bedroom if that’s all right.”

Harriet nodded. “I’ll be here.”

Crowley put a delicate hand on Aziraphale’s arm. “Come on, dearie.”

To Aziraphale’s surprise, Crowley led him confidently out of the hotel and down several streets to a set of steps leading into some sort of basement that Aziraphale walked down with a little trepidation, not that he thought the demon was suddenly leading him to his doom, but it was rather spooky.

Instead of revealing the only slightly anticipated torture chamber, the stairs opened up into a dimly lit hallway through which Aziraphale could hear the laughter and bustling of people. 

Aziraphale turned to Crowley, surprised to see him suddenly dressed in his old clothes, hair marginally straighter, jeans practically glued to his stick thin legs. Aziraphale quickly followed suit and immediately felt more himself. He petted the soft fabric of his waistcoat and smiled to himself. This was more like it. Crowley peeled back a curtain and allowed Aziraphale to walk ahead of him.

“Crow-san!” a voice cried from the smoky shadows and Aziraphale stumbled back as a thin Japanese man with a scarred face rushed towards them. He pulled Crowley into a hug and patted him on the back. “It’s been a long time. Very long.”

“Yes, yes. S’not every day I need to be in Japan. Aziraphale, this is Kenichi, an old friend,” Crowley said and Aziraphale shook the man’s hand.

“Sit!” Kenichi said, shooing them to one of the empty tables set up on a platform of tatami mats and cushions. Crowley toed off his shoes and gestured for Aziraphale to do the same so he sat on the edge of the platform to unlace his dress shoes. Vaguely, he heard Crowley order for them—sushi and udon and sake based on Kenichi’s recommendation—before Aziraphale climbed up to join him at the table.

Kenichi gave a sharp nod and walked off with the order, leaving them alone. “How do you know Kenichi?”

“How do you know Japanese?” Crowley shot back, picking chopsticks out of the box on the table.

“If you must know, I learned it for fun. A very long time ago. I’d just finished learning Dutch and I’d enjoyed that so much, I decided to try something with a different alphabet. I didn’t actually think I’d have occasion to use it. But Masato-san at the sushi place downtown appreciates when I speak with him, so I have gotten a bit of practice.”

Crowley tapped his chopsticks on the table in no discernible rhythm. “Learned a lot of languages for fun, eh?”

_Tap-tap-tap._

“Just Spanish, Dutch, and Japanese. I tried French but I hated it. Terrible people, the French,” he said, noticing that the tapping was beginning to sound suspiciously like “Fall Out Boy.”

_Tap._

“You’re just angry they tried to behead you.”

_Tap-tap._

_Tap-tap-tap._ Aziraphale plucked the chopsticks out of Crowley’s hand and ignored his indignant glare.

“One should be able to hold a grudge when people try to kill them, besides the spelling is horrendous.”

“The spelling granted, but holding a grudge against an entire country? Seems a lot of effort. Hating a whole country.”

Aziraphale scowling. “I don’t hate them. I love all God's creatures.” _I just love the ones who speak French slightly less_ , Aziraphale told himself.

“Yeah yeah yeah, keep telling yourself that, angel.”

Kenichi reappeared with sake and water and poured them all a glass of the warm alcohol, which they toasted together. Aziraphale swallowed it, savoring the bitter sweetness. Giving Kenichi a gesture of thanks, Crowley licked at his lips, drawing Aziraphale’s attention and immediately making him blush at the swift pulse of interest in his belly.

He really had been doing better. Not thinking of Crowley that way. They’d fallen into a friendly rhythm at the cottage, talking about work, being quiet together, but making sure to give each other space. But this trip was wreaking havoc on Aziraphale’s focus, as he found himself thinking about all the ways he wanted to touch Crowley, how he _always_ wanted to be with him.

Always was quite a terrifying concept in the face of eternity. 

Aziraphale sullenly took another set chopsticks from the box. “And Kenichi?”

“Got him out of a spot of trouble in 2000. I was at Heathrow in June for business and he was having issues with his passport. Helped him out of it.”

“That sounds awfully friendly of you.”

“I was bored,” Crowley said nonchalantly, but when he smiled as Kenichi brought over the food Aziraphale knew better than to take him at his word. “Besides, it involved lying and forgery, so it was really just a side job.”

Aziraphale was about to dig in to his octopus when he paused. “Wait, what business did you have at Heathrow?”

“I had to ground a plane. What’s it to you?”

“Just curious,” Aziraphale said, trying to disperse the suspicion in Crowley’s voice. He didn’t need to know that he had _also_ had business in Heathrow in the spring of 2000. 

They finished their food, bickering over which sushi roll was best—Crowley said the kanpyo tasted like dirt, but in a good way while Aziraphale preferred the tuna—and when it came time to settle their bill, Kenichi waved them off. “It’s the least I can do,” he said to Crowley when he handed their yen back to them.

Crowley doubtfully tucked his money back into his pocket as Aziraphale thanked Kenichi effusively before they took their leave.

“That was delightful,” Aziraphale said. He patted his stomach and savored the lingering flavor of soy sauce.

“How does it compare to London?” Crowley asked as they walked through a crowd of people crossing the intersection back to the hotel.

“Very different but just as delicious.”

Crowley looked at him askance.

“What? I’m very loyal to Masato-san.”

When they returned to the hotel room, Harriet shushed them, gesturing to where Warlock was sleeping in the playpen. She shuffled them into the kitchen and asked, “Did you have a good lunch?”

Aziraphale nodded enthusiastically and she rubbed her hands together. “Fantastic. I have to get to work, are you ok with Warlock for the next few hours? I’ll be going out to dinner with Tad so you can put him down for the night if I’m not back.”

Crowley nodded and reached out to take Harriet’s hand. “Don’t worry about it, dear. We have everything in hand.”

Harriet looked wistfully at Warlock and then nodded before retiring to the bedroom to work on the projects she was managing. Seemed awfully boring work, project management. Or at least Aziraphale thought so. Some of the other Principalities went in for that sort of thing up in Heaven, but he’d never seen the appeal. He’d miss Earth too much. And sushi.

As Warlock slept, Aziraphale picked back up his O’Hara and read. He was nearly finished with the collected poems, a little disappointed in himself for taking so long to finish the volume. Though he supposed he had been quite busy and O’Hara practically begged for re-reading.

Crowley sat on the couch in silence as Aziraphale read and eventually, Aziraphale caved in the silence, “I can read aloud if you like.”

Crowley glanced at Warlock who seemed dead to the world and nodded. “I suppose that would help pass the time.”

“For Janice and Kenneth to Voyage,” Aziraphale said, softly. He loved reading poetry aloud. That was the way it was meant to be experienced.

_Love, love, love / honeymoon isn’t used so much in poetry these days_

_And if I give you a bar / of Palmolive soap / it would be rather cracker-barrel / of me, wouldn’t it?_

Crowley pulled up his long legs to tuck under him, his skirt moving to reveal his knobby knees. Aziraphale paused and Crowley gestured for him to continue. He cleared his throat.

_The winds will wash out your hair, my dears. / Passions will become turrets, to you._

_I’ll be so afraid / without you. / The penalty of the Big Town / is the Big Stick,_

_Yet when you were laughing nearby / the monsters ignored me like a record player_

_And I felt brilliant / to be so confident / that the trees / would walk back to Birnam Wood._

Warlock started to stir, making low noises of waking that drew Crowley’s attention and Aziraphale finished reading, enunciating into the space between them. 

_It was all you, your graceful white smiles / like a French word, the one for nursery, the one / for brine_.

Looking down at the words, Aziraphale ignored a sudden stab of longing. Frank was no good for him these days and perhaps that was why the reading had dragged out so long. Where were the poems about being helplessly in love with someone who couldn’t return your feelings and accepting it without any qualms? Hmm? That seemed a fine topic. 

Putting aside the book, he got up to help Crowley with the baby. Eventually, Harriet and Tad reemerged and took their leave for dinner, telling Nanny and Francis to order whatever they wanted from room service.

Evening stretched on and the Dowlings didn’t return home. Steadily avoiding looking at the bedroom, Aziraphale helped Crowley put Warlock down for the night, turning on the baby monitor before retiring themselves.

Together they walked into the small bedroom they were supposed to share and Aziraphale went straight to the en suite to get ready for bed and give himself a good talking to.

He brushed his teeth and looked himself in the eye. “You’re an angel. You’re better than this.”

When he returned to the bedroom he found Crowley sitting on the bed in what Aziraphale could only call a purposefully casual position. The ridiculousness of it immediately soothed his nerves. 

Shaking his head, Aziraphale circled the bed and opened the wardrobe to pull out his nightclothes. Ignoring the demon seemed to do wonders because he heard Crowley make an irritated noise before he stomped off and shut the bathroom door more forcefully than could possibly be necessary. Aziraphale chuckled to himself, somehow pleased that Crowley was as uncomfortable as him, but his laughter died when he remembered that Crowley was probably only uncomfortable because he knew Aziraphale loved him and didn’t feel the same way. 

Throat tightening, he swiftly changed into his pajamas and crawled into bed. It was just as comfortable as it had been the night before and Aziraphale felt his body give in as exhaustion overtook him.

He closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them he saw Crowley standing at the edge of the bed, scowling down at the linens as if they had personally wronged him.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, swimming up from the half sleep he had fallen into.

“Who else would it be?” Crowley snapped, his yellow eyes dilating.

“Are you just going to stand there or are you going to come to bed?”

Crowley stood there.

Sighing, Aziraphale reached out and flipped the covers down on the other side of the bed. “Stop being silly. If I can get over it so can you, now get in.”

Crowley hesitantly slipped between the sheets and rolled over on his side facing away from Aziraphale. It was silent for a moment before Aziraphale said, “I had a lovely time today.”

Crowley grunted in acknowledgment.

Tracing shapes between the dots of ceiling spackle with his gaze, Aziraphale laid awake until he heard Crowley’s breathing even out and—as if the demon were a heat seeking missile—felt Crowley’s body gravitate across the bed to Aziraphale’s side into that same grasping position. Instead of pushing him away, Aziraphale gave in, moving his arm so it wouldn’t fall asleep under Crowley’s weight and ushered him closer to his side, relishing the feel of his black satin nightgown under his fingers as the smell of lavender lulled him back to sleep.

When he woke up, Crowley was already gone and he could hear Nanny Ashtoreth’s laughter through the bedroom door. 

“You’re handling it,” Aziraphale said quietly into the empty room as his heart gave a pathetic lurch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the first poem quoted is [Mayakovsky](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/53219/mayakovsky)  
> the second is [For Janice and Kenneth to Voyage](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=26907l), a personal favorite
> 
> the brief instance of japanese is translated as "one strawberry please." the only reason Japan is the location of the trip is that 1) I've been there, 2) Aziraphale canonically loves sushi and 3) I speak Japanese (passingly)
> 
> Also! for anyone who feels its unrealistic for a nanny to go on such a trip, my good friend is a nanny and her employers took her to FRANCE which i thought was wild but who am i to judge. 
> 
> thank you so much for all your lovely comments! this story is definitely a labor of love (in that i desperately wanted to read it so i had to write it) and I'm so glad other people are enjoying reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no warnings on this chapter  
> referenced media in end notes  
> as always beta'ed by [wingittofreedom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wingittofreedom)

Crowley came out of the bedroom scowling, expression ruining the effect of the beautiful black dress he had bought while shopping with Harriet—“She was so _insistent,_ Aziraphale.”—and he would have been lovely if he wasn’t storming around like a demon-shaped thundercloud.

“Oh, my beautiful peach,” Aziraphale said, holding out his arms to his wife. Well, sort-of wife.

Crowley’s face contorted almost painfully as he tried to smooth out his scowl into a pleased smile. It was frankly horrifying to look at. “You look very handsome, Francis.”

Aziraphale had _tried_ , putting on a suit and tie for the occasion, acknowledging he couldn’t resort to his usual sense of fashion and therefore looking less dapper than he preferred. What he wouldn’t give for a well cut, tailored suit.

Seated at the kitchen table with her laptop, Harriet made a cooing noise. When Aziraphale turned to look at her, clearly unable to keep the discomfort from his face, she blushed. “Sorry! You’re very cute you know.”

Harriet had insisted on getting them their own hotel room, apologizing the entire time for taking them away for their anniversary and swearing up and down that she would pay for anything and everything. Proving himself a somewhat surprising romantic, Tad had agreed emphatically. “21 years is quite an accomplishment. You should celebrate!” he’d said, clapping an enthusiastic hand on Francis’s back. 

Reaching for his wife, Aziraphale pulled Crowley against him by the hips until they were flush from tip to metaphorical tail—although considering Crowley’s past incarnations, the tail was somewhat less of a metaphor in his case. A sense of rightness settled over Aziraphale and his heart swelled with a joy he couldn’t control. Sometimes being an angel was a right pain in the—“I love you, my dear.”

Oh that was far too real.

But before he could walk it back, Crowley dropped a kiss to the corner of his mouth, making his stomach swoop precariously. Attraction really did enjoy toeing the line between excitement and nausea.

“Love you too, dearie,” Nanny Ashtoreth said, and whatever moment of lunacy had overtaken Aziraphale shattered as her soft brogue reminded him that this wasn’t Crowley and it didn’t mean anything. Not really.

His sanity took another blow when Lilith reached up and swiped her thumb over Aziraphale’s lower lip. “Lipstick,” she said, sounding a bit breathless. Crowley was surprisingly good at putting on airs, although perhaps not surprising since demons could lie about anything.

“Quite alright,” Aziraphale squeaked.

They stood there for a moment, wound together before Aziraphale had the presence of mind to pull away. “Best get a move on.”

Together they took off for Yokohama Chinatown, wandering the streets, taking in the lights and sampling the street food. Earning several weird looks from vendors for his overt enthusiasm—and probably because of the sight of a fat Englishman babbling happily in Japanese was strange in any part of the world—Aziraphale flitted from stand to stand, struggling to select his next course. There were dumplings filled with delicious meat and scallion pancakes and sweet fruit and candies even Aziraphale didn’t recognize. Amazing how inventive humans could be when they put their minds to it, and how lovely the results were when it was to something like food or music rather than weapons of mass destruction or those awful vending machines. 

He was practically vibrating by the time they walked the full way down the market and when Crowley looked over at him an amused smile flickered across his red lips. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Oh my dear boy, you have to try this red bean bun,” Aziraphale said holding out the steamed bun he had just taken a sizeable bite out of.

To his surprise, Crowley actually leaned down and took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Too sweet,” he declared, mouth still full. _Dreadful manners_ , Aziraphale thought even as his heart raced.

“I love it,” Aziraphale said, ordering a second one to distract himself. 

Once Aziraphale couldn’t eat another bite, Crowley transported them back to the hotel where they ordered good champagne. Nerves that had been forgotten in the euphoria of good food and pretty lights—and a beautiful Crowley—returned as Aziraphale fiddled with the box in his pocket. “I got you something, actually,” he said, interrupting the silence as they waited for their drinks to arrive.

Eyes snapping open, Crowley sat up on the bed. “It’s not really our anniversary you know.”

“I know that,” Aziraphale said crossly to cover up the discomfort steadily rising in his gut. “I thought it would be good to have something to show for it. Keep up appearances.”

“Fine,” Crowley huffed with an exaggerated eye roll. “Give it here.”

Aziraphale resisted the urge to huck the box at Crowley’s head. Instead, he stood from the couch and set the box in the demon’s outstretched hand. Yellows eyes dilating, Crowley considered the box for a moment and then opened it.

A soft breath. Silence.

“I thought it would be best. Something to wear so the Dowlings could see—”

Crowley snapped the box shut, interrupting his rant. “I didn’t get you anything.”

“That’s fine I—”

“Wait here,” Crowley said before he stood and went into the bathroom.

Aziraphale gazed after him, bemused. 

A clattering and then the sound of pouring water echoed out of the bathroom. The running water tapered off and then Crowley reappeared followed by the scent of sandalwood, his silky dress sticking to him in wet patches. “I drew you a bath. You like those, right?”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “A bath?”

“Yes,” Crowley said as if Aziraphale were slow on the uptake. 

Realization hit with all the subtlety of a scream. Crowley was uncomfortable with Aziraphale’s gift. Meaning the bath was a ruse; an easy way for Crowley to get away from him while pretending to return a favor. 

Maybe it was even to spare Aziraphale’s feelings. 

“Oh yes, wonderful,” Aziraphale said, trying to sound bright despite his sinking heart. He’d forgotten what this felt like in the months since things had grown easier between them, this acute sting of rejection. “I’ll just—”

Crowley sat back down on the bed, cradling the box in his hand as Aziraphale shuffled into the bathroom. “I’ll let you know when the champagne gets here,” Crowley called after him.

Taking the dismissal for what it was, Aziraphale closed the door to the truly grand bathroom. Crowley, it appeared, had transformed the place into something even grander, the whirlpool tub filled with steaming water and opaque bubbles, two candles lit and burning low.

It was almost...romantic.

Shaking his head, he sank into the water. Leave it to him to see what he wanted to see. Crowley would do anything to divert attention. Even stage a romantic scene apparently.

A light tap on the door drew Aziraphale from his morose thoughts. Really, he had no right to be moping. It had been a good day with delicious food and good company. “Come in.”

Slipping through the door, Crowley handed off a glass of champagne before awkwardly taking his leave. Aziraphale sipped at the cold drink, relishing the bubbles that burst over his tongue and the moment he had to simply be alone, be warm, and something like happy.

**

Bundled into a robe, relaxed and only slightly damp, Aziraphale split the rest of the champagne with Crowley, more for the taste than to get drunk. Aziraphale ordered strawberries on a whim and they split those too.

The gift box sat on the bed at their feet, mocking him, as they drained the bottle, passing it back and forth between them once they’d stopped bothering to drink from glasses.

“I’m going to come back to Japan,” Aziraphale declared. “Those buns were to die for.”

Crowley frowned. “I hope you don’t mean literally.”

“That was _one time_ ,” Aziraphale said, snatching the bottle back from Crowley before he could take a drink. 

And so they passed the night, the champagne miraculously refilling until all Aziraphale could remember was that he was wrong. He really did feel happy.

**

Waking up to light streaming between the curtains, Aziraphale looked over the city and saw snow falling, melting as it made contact with the tops of buildings. He nuzzled fabric under his cheek, lavender and satin and—

He sat up.

Crowley looked down at him innocently from where he was sitting against the headboard. Had he been like that all night? Had Aziraphale just _fallen asleep on his lap_?

Willing his heart to slow down, Aziraphale told himself it was fine. This was fine. At this point, they’d woken up tangled together nearly every morning since arriving in Japan. There was no reason to feel embarrassed. Absolutely _no reason_. The spot of drool on Crowley’s dress was not a good reason to instantly transport himself across the Pacific ocean. _Not at all_ , he thought, even as he continued to triangulate exactly how he would make the journey. Just in case.

“Sleep well, angel?” Crowley asked coolly, not moving his hand from where it was poised on Aziraphale’s back.

Leave it to Crowley to _mock_ him when he absolutely knew how Aziraphale felt.

Pulling away, Aziraphale sat up against the headboard, mirroring Crowley’s position. “You could have woken me up, you know.”

Crowley shrugged and swung himself out of bed. “Time to go. We’ve got an antichrist to influence.”

Feeling rejection sting the place that still ached from the night before, Aziraphale followed suit, stopping in his tracks when the light caught the metal on Crowley’s index finger, illuminating the ring Aziraphale had given him. The small silver snake wound around the base of his finger, coming to an end at the first knuckle, a ruby set into the tail where it curled down the back of his hand.

“Thank you. For wearing it,” Aziraphale choked out, feeling a hot thread of possessiveness twist through his chest.

 _You are being ridiculous_ , he chided himself.

“Not a problem,” Crowley said dismissively, arranging his dress so it didn’t look like he’d had someone sleeping on it all night. “You were right. It’ll be good to show Harriet. Loving couple and all.”

Right. Loving couple. 

**

The journey back from Japan was long and tiring and Aziraphale found himself retreating to the back room of the plane where he could rest. More to take a break from Crowley than to actually sleep. 

He closed his eyes and Frank O’Hara played through his mind like a taunt.

_That’s funny! there’s blood on my chest / oh yes, I’ve been carrying bricks / what a funny place to rupture!_

“You stop that, Frank,” he murmured into the itchy blanket on the cot. He thought he heard the cry of a baby from the main cabin but refused to get up to check.

He thought about the tomatoes that he’d have to coax back to fragile life. Of the obstinate peppers he thought Crowley perhaps spent his free time keeping alive through his own mysterious means. Soon it would be March and daffodils and crocuses would bloom and Aziraphale could bring those into the house, place them next to the rose on the kitchen table.

**

Returning back to work after Japan caused some strife in the little garden cottage Aziraphale had started to think of as home.

Crowley got easily snappy and standoffish—more so than normal—and while Aziraphale didn’t _think_ it was any lingering discomfort over his emotional confession or the awkwardness of their growing closeness in Japan, he couldn’t shake the feelings of unease that this new behavior inspired. He was used to Crowley’s moods. But he was also used to being able to placate them.

One particular evening a month after their return, Aziraphale listened from his nest on the couch as Crowley slammed through the cupboards, glass clinking before he heard a shout. “ _Wh_ _ere’s the bloody alcohol in this house_?” 

Aziraphale sighed and tossed aside the blanket he had wrapped around himself. In another existence, he could have potentially resisted Crowley’s desperate tantrums, but alas, not in this one. 

“Calm down, my dear. I don’t see why you are acting this way,” Aziraphale said, pulling at Crowley’s fingers where they were grasped around a tumbler. 

Crowley glared at him, glasses still covering his eyes, the shape of his mouth making Aziraphale uncomfortable as if when the demon opened it, he would see it full of fangs.

Snatching the glass back from Aziraphale, Crowley smashed it on the counter in what truly _was_ a tantrum, glass shattering over his hand and the floor in turn. 

“That was absolutely unnecessary,” Aziraphale said with scowl before snapping his fingers and miracling away the shards of the late cup.

Crowley’s antagonistic demeanor shifted before Aziraphale’s startled eyes, all the wind going out of him like a popped balloon. “I haven’t been feeling very well.”

Which was as close to an apology as Aziraphale was likely to get and he knew it. Despite the lackluster excuse, Aziraphale immediately began to fret. “Are you sick? Can demons even get sick? Angels can’t but—”

Crowley’s hand snaked out, circled his wrist weakly, making Aziraphale’s pulse speed up as he broke off. 

“I’m not sick,” Crowley said, looking at his feet.

“Stress then?”

Crowley shrugged and turned away, the fading twilight a warm nimbus surrounding him. 

Aziraphale softened. Something about the slope of Crowley’s shoulders, the despondent lack of curl in his normally impeccable hair— _so_ _mething_ made him press his hands into Crowley’s back and urge him from the room. “Go get comfortable. I’ll make you a drink.”

Crowley lurched from the room, dramatic as a Shakespearean hero, or a toddler caught with their hand in the cookie jar and thoroughly chided for it.

Humming, Aziraphale miracled a simple whiskey soda. It wasn’t the finest stuff as Aziraphale had trouble recalling the taste, but it was quick and would do since he didn’t think Crowley was in the mood to be as picky as he usually was.

When he entered the living room, he found Crowley curled in a blanket—two blankets—one about his legs and the other wrapped around his torso like a shawl. He looked unspeakably weary. Like his 6000 years were finally showing.

“Here you go, my dear,” Aziraphale said softly, handing over the cold cup, slick with condensation. 

Crowley made a little noise that Aziraphale supposed was thanks—though he wasn’t going to assume anything. 

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

A loud slurp was the only answer he got.

“Really, Anthony, I know you have your moods but this is absolutely ridiculous.”

Crowley looked up at Aziraphale’s use of his chosen first name. The angel rarely used it and Crowley seemed to sense it meant his dander was up because his shoulders slumped in defeat. “I’m fine, Aziraphale.”

He didn’t sound fine. 

“That doesn’t—”

“Leave it,” Crowley said so forcefully that Aziraphale felt like _he_ should be the one to apologize.

“Fine. Suffer then,” Aziraphale snapped in a huff, regretting it when he tucked himself into bed half an hour later, alone and in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the poem quoted is [Mayakovsky](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/53219/mayakovsky)  
> 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed by [ wingittofreedom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wingittofreedom/pseuds/WingittoFreedom) who helped me up the fluff in this chapter

Aziraphale stumbled back into the cottage after a long day in the mud. 

With typical English dampness, spring had at last come to the Dowling estate, proving to be positively filthy. Leaving his boots outside, he stripped in the mudroom and took a quick rinse in the shower, watching the dirty water flow down the drain, cold body warming in the hot water and steaming room. He enjoyed the daily work of gardening, of _accomplishing_ something, but he did _not_ enjoy how messy it was sometimes.

Washing his hair and body, the smell of soap overtook that of dirt and weeds and after a few more minutes, Aziraphale felt more like himself and less like Francis the gardener, kneeling in the flowerbeds while the clouds drizzled pathetically onto his shoulders and down his neck.

After drying himself with a towel, Aziraphale pulled on clothes he had conveniently miracled into the room, reflecting that he would need to slow down on the miracles or else Heaven might start asking questions. He hated when they did that.

Whistling to himself, Aziraphale went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Given the late hour he had expected Crowley to already be home, lounging in the living room with the TV on or maybe a record playing as he painted his nails. But when Aziraphale went to see if he wanted tea, he found the room empty. Scowling to himself, he made himself a cup, stirring sugar in slowly.

Perhaps Crowley was in the bedroom. That would be strange, the demon rarely took to bed so early. 

Aziraphale took his cup and went back to the bedroom only to push the door open and promptly drop his teacup onto the wood floor with an exclamation. Grasping at the door frame, he reminded himself that the giant snake in his bed was in fact his friend and pretend-wife and not, actually, a giant snake.

“Crowley?” he squeaked. He was pretty certain it _was_ Crowley but it wouldn’t hurt to check. Just in case he needed to burn the entire house down and never come back.

 _Nggk_ , the snake said, not exactly words but a very Crowley-esque noise all the same.

“What on Earth is going on?” Aziraphale demanded as tea began to seep towards his feet across the warped floorboards of the old house. Was this what had been behind Crowley’s awful behavior the last several weeks?

 _Shedding,_ the snake said, and the one word sounded so difficult that Aziraphale took an involuntary step forward, not sure how he could help. 

Though once he was closer, he understood why Crowley sounded so pained. The demon’s deep black scales were coated in a milky layer of skin that stretched over the length of him, clouding his eyes and the movement of his mouth. A forked tongue flicked out, startling Aziraphale.

“Well you look ghastly,” Aziraphale told him.

 _Well then go away_ , Crowley grated out, his voice a garbled hiss.

“Stop talking,” Aziraphale commanded, thinking hard about everything he’d ever learned about snakes in his over 6000 years on a planet riddled with the creatures and associating with one on a semi-regular basis. 

It turned out it was abysmally little. 

Throwing his previous thoughts about too many miracles into the bin, he summoned a book on herpetology from his bookshop and frantically flipped to the chapter on snakes. 

Quickly scanning over the section, he murmured to himself, “Bath, warmth, shedding aids. This can take _days_?” 

He gave the snake an accusatory look. _How long had Crowley been dealing with this? Since the garden?_ “You should have told me this was happening. We could have planned for it.”

 _Thought I had...a bit_ ... _more time._

Aziraphale shook his head, bewildered. “I’m running a bath, which, according to the book, is supposed to help. Then I’m calling Harriet to tell her you’re sick. For goodness sake Crowley,” Aziraphale said, simultaneously concerned and frustrated.

Aziraphale dialed the main house on the kitchen telephone and reported Nanny Ashtoreth’s “migraine” to Pearson who promised to tell Harriet. 

“If she’s going to get a replacement,” Aziraphale added, “she should know that the migraine fits can last a few days. Best be prepared.”

Pearson sent his regards to Francis’s wife and hung up the phone. The man had sounded so genuinely concerned that Aziraphale was honestly touched, making a mental note to mention it to Crowley once this whole shedding business was over.

When he returned to the bedroom, Crowley was already half off the bed, struggling as he wriggled towards the bathroom door, his movement restricted by the tight, dry skin that refused to shed. “What are you doing? Stay still,” Aziraphale said, reprimand clear in his voice. Stupid, stubborn serpent, he thought with a significant amount of vitriol. He had had a very long day and this was the _last thing_ he needed. A wayward reptile.

 _Bathroom. Was getting in the bath…_ Crowley hissed. 

“I’ll take you there, you stubborn thing,” Aziraphale said, kneeling down to lift Crowley into his arms, only to immediately drop him, the weight of an anaconda sized demon proving too much. He rushed to apologize when Crowley grunted in pain. “Perhaps we can work together,” he offered with chagrin.

Crowley peered up at him through the milky patch of skin covering his eyes, clearly waiting for him to do something. “I’ll pick you up but you’ll need to wrap around me.”

 _To strangle you,_ Crowley said and Aziraphale poked him in the nose. 

“The more you joke, the longer you’ll be uncomfortable,” Aziraphale said, the humor of the situation finally occurring to him, and Crowley had the decency to look embarrassed. Well, as embarrassed as a sentient snake could look. “Now up you get.”

This time around, Aziraphale lifted Crowley from a point closer to his head, letting him wind around his arm and then his torso, coiling about him until he was almost fully encasing Francis’s girth from tip to tail. He was also _heavy_ so Aziraphale had to call on all his strength to keep him aloft as he shuffled the 5 meters to the bathtub. 

Looking down at the thing, he realized Crowley wouldn’t entirely fit. But it was better than nothing since apparently, hot water loosened the skin, making the shedding easier. 

Crowley disentangled himself from Aziraphale’s shoulders and let the angel lower him loop by loop into the tub which quickly overflowed as the weight of Crowley’s body displaced the water.

Letting out a hiss of what Aziraphale could only read as pleasure, Crowley coiled in on himself and perched his head on the side of the tub, gaze going distant in (hopefully) contentment even as water poured over Aziraphale’s feet, soaking the bottom of his trousers. 

“Comfortable?” Aziraphale asked, a little cross.

The snake made no response.

Huffing, Aziraphale grabbed several towels from the linen closet, grumbling to himself about Crowley’s stupidity as he tried to figure out how he was going to find a blanket big enough to wrap the snake in. Today had not been the day to resolve to do fewer miracles. Aziraphale placed all the towels on the floor to soak up the extraneous water before it could get musty. Flooding handled, he miracled a long back scratcher into his right hand, brandishing it in the humid air. 

For a split second he felt a sense of déjà vu, a snake beside him, sword in hand. 

He shook his head. They couldn’t be farther from the Garden and a back scratcher was certainly not a flaming sword.

“Crowley—are you awake?” Aziraphale asked, sitting down on the side of the bathtub. 

_Yess,_ Crowley said, sounding a bit better than he had in the bedroom. _Not exactly comfortable enough to sleep_.

That caused Aziraphale to feel a twinge of pity. “I’m sorry, my dear. I read some about the shedding process. It said, warm water, warm environment, and shedding aids. Does this count?”

Crowley swung his head to look directly at Aziraphale. _Is that a back scratcher?_

“I thought it would work,” Aziraphale said, ruffling under Crowley’s scrutiny. 

_S’fine_. _Beggars can’t be choosers and all_ , Crowley slurred, tongue flickering out.

Aziraphale submitted to the desire to run a comforting hand over Crowley’s head, the snake tilting into it like a cat as Aziraphale gave his neck a tentative scratch, at which Crowley made an absolutely _sinful_ noise that they both pointedly ignored.

Resigning himself to a very wet evening, Aziraphale rolled up his sleeves and twisted around, his legs settling into the water next to Crowley’s red-orange belly. 

Sighing, he used one hand to stabilize Crowley’s upper body and the other to run the back scratcher lightly over various points of his body, watching as patches of dull scales turned milky when the old skin loosened. 

They stayed like that for a while, working at Crowley’s beleaguered skin until Aziraphale’s corporation grew pruney and the water cooled to room temperature. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat, drawing the attention of a drowsy Crowley. “It’s getting too cold. I want you to go into the living room so I can light a fire. Do you think you can move on your own now?”

Crowley slithered tentatively from the bathtub in response, the wet slap of his skin onto the drenched floor echoing in the small room. 

He made it as far as the bedroom door before he started to struggle. When he did, Aziraphale knelt down once more and let the snake wind around his body, a no doubt hilarious parody of caduceus. It was slow going but eventually Aziraphale managed to wrestle Crowley into a very large, miracled blanket next to the fire which he had already set to burning. A humidifier appeared and began pumping moisture into the air as Aziraphale worked, folding one side of the blanket carefully over Crowley, and using the other to tuck around him as well, effectively swaddling him. 

Crowley wiggled in his blanket prison and moaned as the friction inevitably pulled against stuck skin. “Does it hurt?” Aziraphale asked.

 _Nnn,_ Crowley grunted, neither confirming or denying but he continued to wiggle so Aziraphale assumed it felt good. 

“Do you want me to turn on one of your programs?” he offered, absurdly not wanting to leave Crowley alone in his compromised state.

After making another noise that was easier to discern as a yes, Crowley coiled towards the television like an expectant, serpentine question mark as Aziraphale flicked onto sci-fi reruns, Crowley’s preferred channel.

“What is this?” Aziraphale asked, squinting at the bright colors on the TV.

 _Star Trek, you heathen_ , Crowley muttered from his position on the floor. Aziraphale rolled his eyes, noting that the snake looked uncomfortable with his head lifted slightly to angle towards the TV. Plucking a throw pillow from the couch, Aziraphale bent down and propped it under Crowley’s chin. 

_Oh that’s better_ , Crowley said, once more nuzzling into Aziraphale’s palm absentmindedly. Aziraphale scratched at his head and some of the filmy skin came off in his hand. 

Aziraphale made a face at the patch of dead snakeskin and hustled from the room to throw it out. When he returned, a skinny man with pointed ears was striking a gong.

A moment later, as he and a particularly fit man started to wrestle, Aziraphale felt his ears burn. This was very—oh dear, well, very _erotic_.

A knock at the door drew his attention and he gave a start, tearing his eyes away from the screen. Sending a quiet prayer of thanks to the Almighty as he went to the entryway, he belatedly realized he probably shouldn’t have when he saw Harriet Dowling on his stoop, a concerned look on her face. 

“I’m so sorry to hear about Nanny,” she said as soon as the door was open. “I brought over some things that help me when I get migraines.”

Aziraphale looked down and saw she was gripping a canvas bag tightly. She lifted it. “Humidifier, ice packs, and lemon tea. The last one might not work, but I thought it would help.”

“That’s very kind of you, Ms. Dowling,” Aziraphale said, half shutting the door so that his body was the only part of the house visible. A crash echoed behind him and he tensed. “I’m sure Lilith will be mighty appreciative.”

“Is everything all right?” Harriet said, trying to peer around him.

“Why do you ask?” Aziraphale said.

“Well, that noise—”

“What noise?” he asked quickly. He hoped playing obtuse would work. 

Harriet’s eyebrows pinched together. “Well, I hope Nanny can use these. You can bring them back up to the main house when she feels better.”

Aziraphale took the bag and lifted it in thanks before shutting the door. He discarded it in the hallway and hurried into the living room to find the source of the noise.

Crowley was half draped over the chair, head hanging over the arm as he tried to reach for the TV which had fallen directly on its screen.

“What are you doing?” ‘ _You_ _idiot’_ implicit.

 _Changing the channel_ , Crowley said innocently.

“Don’t try that tone with me. You might be in pain but you don’t need to be so impatient.”

Crowley swung his large head around to look at him, eyes wide which, now no longer covered by skin, were easily recognizable and sent a shiver down Aziraphale’s spine. He looked away, fussing with the TV to fix the screen and put it back in place. 

“What did you so desperately want to watch?”

 _Jeopardy,_ Crowley said sullenly.

Aziraphale flipped the channel and then wrangled Crowley back into the blankets. “You need to stay here to work the skin off.”

Crowley made a noise that directly mocked his tone and Aziraphale poked him. “Stop that. I’m trying to _help_ you.”

Exhaustion of the day winning out, Aziraphale retreated to the bedroom thinking for a moment on how nice it had been in Japan, to have Crowley next to him, and how much he missed it.

**

He woke to the sensation of slithering and shrieked. 

_Quiet down,_ Crowley admonished, still wrapping around him.

“What’s happening?” It wasn’t everyday one was wrapped in the coils of a giant snake.

_It’s done._

“The shedding?”

 _Mmm,_ Crowley replied, an affirmative noise.

“That was faster than I thought,” Aziraphale admitted, still quite nervous by the turn of events that led to a snake becoming his blanket.

 _S’cuz you helped, usually it takes days_ , Crowley said, the slithering coming to a stop as he finished coiling around Aziraphale’s body like a large, reptilian donut.

“If you wanted the bed, you could have just asked,” Aziraphale admonished, trying to get up. A tail wrapped around him and pulled him back down.

 _I get too cold_.

Aziraphale softened. He really was hopeless when it came to Crowley.

“Fine. But know that I do not like this,” he said, settling against his snake pillow as he pulled the blanket over them both.

**

Aziraphale woke before Crowley and did his best to get out of bed without waking the serpent. He seemed dead to the world so Aziraphale just piled a few extra blankets on him before getting ready for the day. 

He went up to the main house, deciding to offer his services with Warlock in case Harriet hadn’t been able to find a replacement. Sure enough, he found her looking harried trying to feed Warlock while she answered questions from an angry sounding woman on speakerphone.

She looked at him with wide eyes, and then a grateful smile when he took the spoon from her. Tugging the highchair across from him, Aziraphale scooped another spoonful of applesauce and offered it to Warlock who eyed him suspiciously.

Nearly a year old, Warlock was eating more solid food and Harriet had started to intersperse her breast milk with formula, apparently desperate to stop pumping. “Would you like some applesauce?” Aziraphale said, holding out the spoon. Warlock slapped it out of his hand and it splattered on the table. 

Harriet waved at him cheerily as she picked up her phone and left the dining room. Aziraphale nodded at her before turning his attention back to the baby. “That was very rude, Warlock,” he said with a disappointed look.

The toddler giggled. 

“What _has_ Nanny Ashtoreth been teaching you?” Aziraphale murmured shaking his head. Not that he thought Crowley would teach bad manners per se, but evil whispers couldn’t possibly breed _good_ manners.

Thirty minutes later, there was more applesauce on Aziraphale than in Warlock’s stomach but he still counted it as a success. “What would you like to do today, Warlock?”

The baby burbled as Aziraphale wiped him down. Perhaps he needed to be changed as well. He looked around to make sure he was alone before performing a brief miracle to clean up the dining room and then hauled baby Warlock up to his nursery for a change of diaper and clothes.

Changing diapers was really as bad as Crowley had said. For once he found himself wishing that he’d been exaggerating.

Aziraphale took Warlock out into the garden where, despite the clouds, the weather had warmed enough that some of the bushes had begun to flower. “Do you know what a hyacinth is?”

Pointing out all the different birds and flowers was fun for Aziraphale but Warlock clearly wasn’t entertained. Barely a quarter of an hour had passed before he started to cry and no matter what Aziraphale did, he wouldn’t stop.

“Oh dear,” he whispered to himself, trying to hold Warlock while also searching through the baby’s bag for something to distract him. The crying became so loud that Aziraphale gave up and hustled them to the cottage just to have somewhere to set Warlock down while he figured out what the toddler was crying for. What did babies need? Maybe he had underestimated how difficult this work was.

“Stay here,” he instructed Warlock when he placed him on a blanket in the living room. Going into the kitchen, he heated up a bottle, filled a sippy cup with water and got a warm wet washrag just in case he’d missed some sticky applesauce during his first attempts and cleaning the toddler.

When he got back into the living room, Warlock was gone. 

“Damn it,” he said. Then he sent an apology to the Almighty.

“Warlock?” he called into the house, listening intently for the sound of the baby. He knew Warlock was crawling pretty successfully—Crowley had complained that he was absolute hell to keep up with.

A loud hiss from the bedroom drew his attention and he practically ran to the back of the house.

 _What did you do_ , Crowley said, swinging his battering ram head to look at Aziraphale as Warlock tried to climb on the bed, grabbing at Crowley’s tail.

“I’m taking care of the baby!” Aziraphale protested.

 _Not very well, clearly_ , Crowley admonished trying to get his tail out of Warlock’s insistent grasp. 

“He was crying and I couldn’t figure out what he wanted and I needed a place to set him down—”

Crowley peered down at Warlock and announced, _He’s just bored. You should read to him. He likes that._

Aziraphale considered that for a moment before reaching down to scoop up the toddler. After giving him a betrayed look, Warlock promptly started crying. 

_Get him out of here. He shouldn’t see me like this._

“It’s not like he’s going to remember.”

_Out._

Huffing and rolling his eyes, Aziraphale obeyed, taking Warlock and his things back up to the house where he could read something nice and full of pictures about how all the animals got along.

**

When Aziraphale returned to the cottage that night, he was wrung out and covered in what he had begun to think of as baby slime. It was sticky, stinky and _everywhere_ —worse than mud, although he hadn’t thought that possible. Honestly, he was developing a newfound respect for Crowley. Humans in general really. They had children _all the time_.

He was glad to find the demon in human form lying down on the couch as the gramophone spun out the strains of a song he didn’t recognize.

_Oh each morning I get up I die a little / Can’t barely stand on my feet_

Crowley’s eyes popped open. “Rough day?”

“I will admit it was more difficult than I expected,” Aziraphale said primly, peeling off his outer layers one-by-one on his trek to the shower.

_Take a look in the mirror and cry / Lord, what’re you doing to me?_

The music became muffled when he shut himself in the bathroom and was drowned out completely by the spray of water. Aziraphale had become rather fond of showers in the year since they had come to the Dowlings.

Before playing human it had been easy to stay clean, brief miracles here and there to keep up his hygiene. But there was something soothing about the way water could rinse the dirt from his skin and how the scent of soap and hot steam filled a bathroom.

He lingered longer than he needed to in the shower, but he felt he deserved it after the day he’d had. When he returned to living room, the gramophone had been turned low and he heard clanking in the kitchen where he found Crowley standing over the stove—still decidedly human shaped—and _cooking_.

Looking at him from the corner of his eye but not turning away from the stove, Crowley asked, “Eggs and toast?”

“That sounds lovely,” Aziraphale said tiredly, more out of habit than anything, feeling shell-shocked at the sight of Crowley doing something so domestic. Something _kind_.

“I had a craving,” Crowley muttered, as if sensing the presence of Aziraphale’s tentative sentimentality and having none of it.

Crowley placed the plate in front of him and took a seat, the rose miraculously still alive on the table between them. 

Aziraphale cut into the eggs, watching the yolks ooze across the bluebell patterned plate. “I didn’t know you shed.”

Without his glasses on, Crowley looked vulnerable for a moment before his unblinking gaze shuttered. “Every century or so. Was trying to hold off until we finished the job but…”

“There are certain things even we can’t control,” Aziraphale said, thinking for a moment about all the other things he couldn’t control. 

Crowley shifted in his seat, looking for all the world like he didn’t give two figs about Aziraphale’s soft assurances. Sometimes Aziraphale wished the demon didn’t feel the need to be quite so aloof. 

“So,” Crowley said sharply, puncturing the silence with a change of subject. “What are you reading these days, angel?”

“Well, I finally finished the O’Hara—which was delightful by the way, you should read more of it, you’d love it—and I’m thinking of starting on some Austen but I’ve read that before. I bought some more modern fiction but dark motifs have been so in fashion this last decade and I want something _light_.”

“Sounds like you want to read the Austen.”

Aziraphale set his fork down. “You’re right. It just seems like re-reading is a waste. There’s so much out there _to_ read.”

“Bugger that. Do what you want,” Crowley countered.

“I suppose you’re right,” Aziraphale acquiesced. Crowley was far too good at convincing him. A few words and Aziraphale would cave. Well, Crowley was actually very good at saying exactly what Aziraphale was already thinking. Just sometimes more concisely. Bugger that indeed.

“Which one are you gonna read?”

“I was thinking _Persuasion_.”

“The one with all the pining?”

“The very same.”

Crowley hummed and looked out the window over the garden. “The roses need pruning.”

“I’ll get to them tomorrow,” Aziraphale assured him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song referenced is (obviously) Somebody to Love by Queen
> 
> thanks for all the comments and kudos!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Media referenced:[ I'm like a lawyer with the way I'm always trying to get you off ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GGRMA0T4hpM) by Fall Out Boy  
> Warnings for this chapter include: marijuana use, bad/dismissive parenting, internalized fat phobia by side character, classism  
> beta'ed by [wingittofreedom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wingittofreedom)

With August and Warlock’s birthday fast approaching, Aziraphale was scrambling to find a suitable gift.

Crowley was mum on his plans—sly demon—so Aziraphale was left to fend for himself. What did one get for the Antichrist? Especially one who was spoiled rotten by his parents.

Aziraphale hated to think ill of Harriet who had been so kind to them, but she really had gone a bit overboard with planning Warlock’s first birthday. Sympathetically, he thought it was in part due to the fact that Mr. Dowling would be away for the actual date, and she was trying to compensate for his absence.

It was a difficult situation to be sure, one that would affect any parent, but was an ark’s worth of hand-stitched stuffed animals _really_ necessary?

In the end, he settled on a set of textured picture books filled with happy stories that could only influence Warlock to the light. He wrapped them in simple paper and tucked them in the closet where they wouldn’t be disturbed by an overly-nosy Crowley.

Sitting in the living room with Crowley, who was meticulously painting his nails his favored shade of blood red, Aziraphale looked up from his book. “Can you believe it’s nearly been a year?” he asked, book dipping in his hand as the realization hit.

“I can’t believe the garden is still alive,” Crowley said without diverting his attention from the slow slide of the brush over his nail.

Aziraphale scoffed. “I am very good at following instructions.”

That made Crowley look up. “How many miracles did you have to use?”

“I’m not telling you,” Aziraphale said, lifting his book to cover his face.

Crowley’s cackle made Aziraphale scowl into the pages of _Persuasion_. The smug serpent. “How many did _you_ use with Warlock?” Aziraphale retorted archly.

“Really only with the big messes if I’m honest.”

“You’re going to have to stop soon. Once he’s old enough to remember.”

“That’s my line,” Crowley interjected and Aziraphale raised one eyebrow pointedly.

“Well, then I suppose I’m right and you should listen to me.”

“Don’t get so self-righteous,” Crowley sulked, slipping the brush back into the nail polish and screwing the bottle shut. Crowley blew carefully on his nails and Aziraphale watched the movement of his lips until he realized what he was doing and looked away. It was an unwelcome reminder that no matter what he’d prefer, his feelings weren’t gone.

“So I’ll be in attendance at the party but not in charge of Warlock—or that’s what Harriet said anyways”—Crowley said, oblivious to Aziraphale’s distraction—“but she asked for me to work in the evening. Girl must want a break after all the excitement.”

Aziraphale hummed. It wasn’t totally unheard of for Harriet to spend a whole day with Warlock and then hand him off to Nanny Ashtoreth in the evenings, allowing her time to relax. While Aziraphale sometimes didn’t understand Harriet’s tendency to abandon her son at the drop of a hat, it did give him and Crowley more time with the baby which could only be a good thing for the fate of the Earth after all.

“I’ll be around,” Aziraphale confirmed. “Harriet asked me to be there as well. And I can always help with Warlock.”

“I should be able to handle it,” Crowley said coolly, kicking his feet up on the coffee table before leaning back in his chair, satisfied and relaxed.

Aziraphale looked away from the sight.

**

The day of the party arrived, bright and warm. The perfect August weather—perhaps encouraged to such lovely temperance by either angelic or demonic forces—a state of affairs which Harriet couldn’t stop mooning over.

“I wasn’t sure if I should host the party outside but I thought—oh a summer birthday absolutely _demands_ a garden party. Oh how delightful,” she said, clapping her hands over the pile of freshly cut lilies that Aziraphale had placed on one of the long tables. Harriet snapped her fingers at one of the party attendants and gestured at the flowers. The young man shuffled over to pick up the flowers, ready to be arranged neatly in the centerpieces.

“Beggin’ your pardon ma’am, but I’ve got to finish up my work before the party. Do you need anything else?” Aziraphale asked, hat in hand.

Harriet shook her head as she surveyed the slow march of workers putting up tables. “I should be fine. The party planners have it under control.”

Her fingers went up to her mouth and she began to chew on her nails before whipping around to face Aziraphale. “I can’t thank you enough for helping out. You and Nanny have been indispensable. Especially with Tad away,” she finished, her voice taking on a harsh edge.

“Anything for you, Harriet. You’ve been so kind to us.”

Harriet managed a small, anxious smile before she was called off by a petite blond woman holding a clipboard.

Aziraphale scurried back to the Crowley-less cottage to change out of his mudstained clothes and pick up his gift, Harriet’s nerves transferring to him and making him go faster than he usually would have. Aziraphale had a feeling that this party would be very trying.

**

Nanny Ashtoreth stood at the back of the garden next to a topiary, looking over the guests silently, a dark sentinel waiting to shush someone. Aziraphale spotted her immediately, hat perched atop her impeccably curled hair, blazer buttoned just-so even in the summer heat.

Francis huffed up to his wife’s side and took a deep breath, rising on his tiptoes to press a kiss to her pale cheek—only she turned her head at the same time to greet him and their lips met. 

And for a moment Aziraphale felt suspended, body humming at the contact of Crowley’s mouth on his. Then he was pulling himself away, heart thundering like it was going to gallop directly out of his chest and into Crowley’s. Absentmindedly, he reached up and wiped the lipstick away from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Sorry about that,” he said, still dazed and for a moment forgetting to playact. 

“What are you apologizing for, dearie?” Nanny Ashtoreth asked frowning, her lips pursing so tightly that they almost disappeared.

“Nothing dear,” he said, trying his best to put on his Francis accent even as he reeled from his blunder, feeling as if he were on fire and being doused in a bucket of ice at the same time, all his nerves sizzling and hissing in protest.

Just then, Harriet’s laughter drew their attention to the main table where Warlock was seated, babbling happily in a language that only he could understand, and which could easily translate to some sort of satanic chant as he stabbed his little hands into a slice of cake before smearing it on himself and Harriet’s chest. 

Aziraphale shuddered. She was taking it better than he would have given the fact that Aziraphale was sure she spent more than his wages on the dress she was wearing. How he would hate to see _that_ done to one of his lovely coats.

A man with thick blonde hair came up them, pulling Aziraphale’s horrified attention back to the present moment. The smile he gave them reminded Aziraphale of Gabriel and he suppressed a nervous shiver. “You must be the nanny,” he said in a crisp Northern accent, addressing Crowley.

“One and the same,” Crowley said coolly, holding out a thin hand.

“I’m Kurt. An old friend of Tad’s. I hear you’re a miracle worker,” he said, taking Crowley’s hand.

“Something like that,” Crowley said, all sharp teeth.

“I’d love to hear about some of your techniques,” he said and Aziraphale decidedly did _not_ like the way his eyes lingered on Crowley’s throat.

Crowley seemed to sense the same thing because he smiled, still beguiling but harsher than before, removing his hand from the man’s grasp. “This is my husband, Francis. He says it’s my demeanor that keeps the children in line. I’m _very_ firm. Isn’t that right, Francis?”

Kurt’s attention shifted to Francis and his eyebrows climbed up his forehead. “Husband?”

“Yes, my dear Lilith’s firm as they come,” Aziraphale said, the desire to get rid of this smarmy man strong enough to help him find his footing once more. “So good with children. She’s really found her calling.” 

The party continued to swing into the evening, fairy lights strung up by the intrepid party planners illuminating the garden until it felt like it glowed from the inside out. 

Aziraphale kept to the outskirts of the groups of well-dressed politicians, their children held by various nannies and au pairs as the suited men and women spoke about politics over the food and the flowing drink. Some of the older children ran around, blowing bubbles and shrieking with joy, the purity of it buoying Aziraphale and bringing him joy of his own.

Just as he was smiling fondly at a child trying to kick a ball down the lawn, Crowley appeared at his elbow. “You try the cake yet?”

Aziraphale shifted, taken aback by Crowley’s sudden presence. “No. I’ve been busy. People watching, I suppose you’d call it.”

Crowley continued to surprise when he shoved a plate laden with carrot cake into Aziraphale’s hands. Looking down at the slice, Aziraphale swallowed, throat tightening with words that he knew Crowley would reject: _thank you,_ _how nice_.

“How delightful,” he said instead, also the truth.

“Can’t say I tried it but I hear Harriet spent a fortune at a bakery so it can’t be _too_ terrible.”

The frosting melted in his mouth and he hummed around the first bite. “Good?” Crowley asked, peering at him.

“The very best,” Aziraphale said after he swallowed, feeling breathless from the sheer deliciousness. “I’ll have to compliment Harriet on her tastes.”

Crowley looked down as a child barreled straight into his legs, pulling at his skirt with little hands. “Who are you?” the girl demanded, tilting her round face up to look at Crowley.

“I’m Warlock’s nanny,” Crowley said, kneeling. “Do you know Warlock? The birthday boy?”

The girl scrunched up her nose and shook her head. “Mummy said he’s a baby. I don’t like _babies_.”

Aziraphale laughed around a bite of his cake. The way the girl had said baby made it sound like a dirty word. 

“Well, how old are you dearie?” Crowley asked.

“This many,” the girl announced holding out 4 fingers.

“Ah, that’s pretty old,” Crowley replied very seriously.

“How old are you?” she asked equally serious.

“Very old.”

“How many years is that?”

“More than you can count on your fingers,” Crowley said, gesturing at her outstretched hands.

“Wow,” she breathed like she couldn’t believe anyone could be that old. If only she knew the half of it.

Aziraphale set aside his cake and asked, “Where’s your parents, sweetie?”

The girl looked around and pointed emphatically across the garden. “Mummy and Daddy are talking to Mrs. Dowling.”

Aziraphale followed the direction of her gesture and immediately grew uncomfortable. Kent, the man who had made eyes at Crowley, was standing with Harriet next to a round bodied woman with a small nose and vivid smile. _Oh_.

Instead of toddling off on her own, the girl wrapped her hand in Crowley’s and dragged them over to Kent and his wife. The blonde man’s eyebrows steadily rose at their approach and Crowley’s mouth grew thinner with every step. 

“Mummy! I made a new friend,” the little girl said, tugging Crowley’s hand towards her mother. 

Thankfully Crowley was polite enough to shake the woman’s hand despite the sour expression on his face.

“Lilith Ashtoreth. The Dowling’s nanny.”

“Oh, I’ve heard such wonderful things,” the woman said. “I’m Natalie and this is Kent. Sorry about Penelope. She’s very...forceful.”

Crowley’s eyes flashed. “No trouble. It’s nice to meet the little ones. Soon Warlock will be the same.”

Harriet gave a half cry of indignation. “Goodness, that’s terrifying to think about.”

The group of humans tittered and Aziraphale looked between them with wide eyes, not quite understanding what was so funny. Why have children if you didn’t want to see them grow up?

“Well, it was very nice to meet you, Penelope, but I’ve got to take Warlock back to the house. Is that all right, Harriet?” Crowley asked, turning his attention to her.

“Of course! He’s sleeping in his carrier. Can you stay overnight with him? I was hoping to have a couple drinks.” 

“Absolutely dear,” Nanny Ashtoreth said before flouncing off to retrieve Warlock.

Removing himself from the group of humans, Aziraphale returned to his cake, it’s deliciousness a comfort after that awkward exchange. Wanting to get away from the hubbub, Aziraphale retreated to the greenhouse, a place he knew was cool and empty. No one wanted to be in the greenhouse with its dirty floor and crowd of half empty pots.

Aziraphale liked the place, especially after Crowley had made a comment about how Aziraphale had done particularly well with the cilantro, something Aziraphlae had done his best not to crow too much over. Pride was a sin after all.

Hopping up on one of the sturdy wooden tables, Aziraphale settled against the glass wall of the greenhouse and returned his attention to his cake. The cake _Crowley_ had made sure he got to try, he thought to himself.

What a perplexing afternoon, watching humans. That Kent fellow trying to chat up Nanny Ashtoreth when Francis was _right there_! And the man was married to boot! With a child! Humans like that made no sense—trying to have their cake and eat it too. It made no sense. If you were lucky enough to have been given a cake, you should enjoy it to its utmost and not try to _flirt_ with someone else's red haired, gorgeous, long legged...cake…

Aziraphale shook his head. He was not about to sit here being jealous. And he _did_ have cake—the real kind—and he was going to enjoy it regardless of any men like _Kent._

Instead, his mind drifted to the brief—oh so brief—kiss he and Crowley had shared. 

An accident. Of course it had been an accident. And if Crowley’s expression was anything to go by then he was displeased, and just as mortified as Aziraphale by the unfortunate brush of lips.

Why couldn’t two immortal beings share a brief kiss without all these queer feelings? Humans did it platonically all the time, Aziraphale protested to himself weakly. 

But this was absolutely different and he knew it. Platonic kisses didn’t make your heart race and your palms sweat at the mere memory. They didn’t make you want to press into your friend and lick desperately into their mouth.

Aziraphale set aside the last few bites of his cake with a sigh, startling when the door creaked open and a giggling Harriet sidled in, trailed by Natalie. Stumbling when she caught sight of Aziraphale, Harriet stopped in her tracks and Natalie bumped into her back. “Francis! I didn’t think you’d be here,” she said, hand on her chest as if she were unspeakably startled.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I can take my leave,” he said, getting ready to leave his perch and shuffle out of the greenhouse.

Harriet shared a significant look with Natalie who shrugged. “Why don’t you stay? We were going to—” Here she made a gesture that Aziraphale didn’t understand like raising a cigarette to her lips,

At his confused look she continued in a hushed voice, “You know. Smoke a little.”

Wondering at her clandestine behavior, Aziraphale nodded, deciding going along with this little charade was probably better than scurrying off in distress.

“Just don’t tell Tad. He’s pretty against it but I wanted to celebrate,” she said as Natalie pulled out a small box and a pipe from her purse.

Realization dawned. This wasn’t tobacco.

“What’s the occasion?” Aziraphale asked, silently weighing the pros and cons of escaping out the glass door. 

“I’m officially no longer pumping! Warlock is 100% formula and solids and I’m _celebrating,_ ” Harriet said wistfully as Natalie raised the pipe in a cheers motion.

“You’ve been so lucky with the weaning,” Natalie commented, filling the basin of the little pipe with crumbled green leaves. “When I stopped with Penelope I was leaking for months and my boobs _hurt_ through the whole thing.”

“One thing to be thankful for. Now if I could only lose the hips,” Harriet said, vaguely despondent as she grasped at the barely there flesh at her waist.

Natalie gave her a dark look. “A losing battle,” she said sagely before passing the pipe to Harriet with a little purple lighter.

Harriet took it and maneuvered it in her hand. “Gosh, it’s been ages.”

“It’s like riding a bike,” Natalie reminded her, smirking. “You ever done this before…” she began, trailing off when she realized she didn’t know Aziraphale’s name.

“Francis,” Aziraphale offered. “And, erm, no. However, first time for everything.”

The woman looked at him with doubtfully but gestured at Harriet. “Watch how she does it and follow suit. You’ll be fine.”

Harriet pressed the pipe to her lips and lit the corner of the bowl, sucking in a deep breath and tapping her finger against a hole in the side. When she pulled the pipe away she held her breath for a moment before releasing on a light cough. “Oh that’s good,” she said to Natalie before passing the pipe to Aziraphale.

Well...when in Rome.

He did his best on the first inhale, smoke burning in his lungs in a way that the tobacco of the 1800s never had. Natalie looked somewhat impressed when he passed her the pipe without coughing.

A few more passes around and Harriet had begun to get downright giggly. Aziraphale understood what she was feeling. He felt like a glass of champagne, all bubbles and sweetness under his skin.

Harriet walked away from the group and ran a finger over some of the begonias that needed replanting. 

Natalie shook out the pipe, its burnt contents mingling with the dirt of the greenhouse. “You feeling it yet?” she asked Harriet, her accent taking on a rural note, the vowels sloping and lengthening in a way that they hadn’t before. 

“Yes,” Harriet said, still giggling as she plucked a begonia from the pot. Aziraphale stifled a cry. That was his plant she was manhandling!

Minutes or hours later (Aziraphale wasn’t sure), they ended up seated around a fire pit close to the garden wall, the rest of the party goers long gone as Natalie struggled to light a fire—eventually succeeding with the help of an inconspicuous but rather energetic miracle on Aziraphale’s part.

“So are you really married to that severe lady?” Natalie asked, puffing on an actual cigarette that had seemed to appear from nowhere. Though perhaps her bag was one of those bottomless ones that could fit chandeliers and hat racks. Improbable.

“Severe is _such_ a good word for her,” Harriet cried as she threw a stick in the fire.

Aziraphale bristled, feeling like he should defend Crowley but also secretly agreeing with their assessment. “I am,” he answered stiffly.

“That woman knows her way around a contour. How long does she spend getting ready in the morning?” Natalie asked.

“Not so long as you’d think,” Aziraphale said. _In fact much, much shorter_ , he thought, thinking of Crowley stubbly and grumbling through his morning routine, still half asleep and only getting by with the aid of his demonic powers. 

They fell into silence for a moment, all considering the fire rather seriously. “She’s very tall. Do you like that?”

“Natalie, stop being rude,” Harriet said, sounding delightfully scandalized. 

“What if I do?” Aziraphale answered at the same time.

Natalie held up her hands. “I’m just curious. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Liking tall women.”

 _Your husband seemed to like it too_ , Aziraphale thought pettily but had the presence of mind not to say it. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t have the presence of mind much longer.

“I think it’s time for me to go to bed,” he announced, hefting himself out of the chair.

“Look at you,” Harriet admonished. “You’ve offended the gardener.”

Aziraphale ignored her for the sake of letting the floaty feeling inside himself take over. He also chose to ignore Natalies pointed, “So what? He’s just the gardener.”

Aziraphale wandered back to the cottage, Harriet and friend vanishing into the night behind him, feeling as if his entire body was humming. Had the stars always been this bright? Had the freshly cut grass always smelled this good?

He fiddled with the doorknob, struggling to get the key in the keyhole with clumsy fingers. He felt drunk! Except fizzier. Finally, getting the key in, he thrust the door open, leaning against the wall and using a miracle to kick off his shoes without untying them. Yes, good.

He turned on all the lights in the house with a single thought and set the record player spinning. Some of Crowley’s nonsense-no-good music pounded out of the speakers but he didn’t care, it had a rhythm and he was alight.

“Mmm,” he mumbled, thinking of the way Crowley’s lips had felt against his for the briefest moment in the garden. What would they feel like if they opened beneath his.

He tapped his hands against the countertop, and water immediately began heating on the stove. Hot cocoa sounded like it would be better than anything else in the universe.

“What is going on angel? Why’re all the lights on?” Crowley demanded, stepping into the kitchen and looking a bit of a mess. The baby slime must have been powerful that day.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cried. It was delightful to see his friend. Whom he lov— “Have you ever smoked marijuana?”

“I take it that you just did,” Crowley said, looking amused but also...disturbed. Disturbed wasn’t right. Perhaps Aziraphale had mixed his words up. 

“Harriet shared with me and that awful Natalie lady. She said she was celebrating the end of breastmilk. Which I suppose one would want to celebrate. No more of the”—Aziraphale gestured at his chest—“pumping.”

Grinning, Crowley looked away, the light catching his glasses and in that moment, Aziraphale wanted nothing but to be closer to him, to slide his fingers into Crowley’s curls, pull off that ridiculous hat. 

Instead he turned his attention to the whistling kettle. “I would _murder_ for a good snack right about now.”

“I don’t think you mean that,” Crowley said, not understanding the true extent of Aziraphale’s desire for a snack. “How about instead of murdering you let me make you something and go sit down?”

Looking at Crowley blearily, Aziraphale nodded. It was so _nice_ when Crowley took care of him. Crowley was so _nice._

Forgetting his cocoa entirely, Aziraphale shuffled back into the living room where music accompanies his movements as he sank into the couch. 

_Me and you / setting in a honeymoon / if I woke up next to you_

Aziraphale scowled at the record player and snapped his fingers, the song switching off before sitting down on the couch. Closing his eyes, he reveled in the sensation of floating. It was nice, he decided, to worry a little less.

Crowley disturbed him by pushing a package of biscuits into his hand. Biscuits that had surely not existed in the cottage until a few moments ago. “Mmm, my favorite. You remembered,” Aziraphale said warmly as he fiddled with the package.

Crowley took his habitual seat by the fire and Aziraphale regarded him fondly. Crowley really was delightful. So pouty even when he was being nice. He felt a dopey smile overtake his face.

“Do you remember,” Aziraphale began in a voice he immediately recognized as too loud, “smoking hookah in Persia?”

Crowley’s face scrunched up—how _adorable_ —and he tapped his fingers on the arm rest. “I think so. Was that the time the Shah tried to seduce you? Or the time you met a wasp who liked baklava as much as you?”

“They were the same time,” Aziraphale said around a biscuit, delighting in the sweet way it crumbled in his mouth.

“Right! When was that? 17th century?”

“Around there I think. We’d already begun the Arrangement,” Aziraphale pointed out, knowing that both of them had trouble identifying when exactly the Arrangement started (even if they both knew when it silently ended). “Despite the wasp in it, that baklava was delicious.”

Crowley began to chuckle low in his throat, it bubbling into genuine laughter when he said, “Oh the look on your face when the stinger got you! Right in the cheek. You cursed up a storm.”

“I did not!” Aziraphale protested, precariously leaning over on the sofa so that half of his torso was reclined. “I wanted to make sure that wasp knew better than to do it again!”

“Well, I count it as cursing. Four letter words notwithstanding.”

Aziraphale’s lean became more precarious as the couch cushions rushed up to meet him.

“And then,”—here Crowley started his normal emphatic gesturing, far too energetic for the midnight hour—“the Shah offered to kiss it better and you said ‘how could you possibly? It’s inside my mouth.’ And then the Shah said ‘all the better.’ You turned red as a beet.”

“Did not,” Aziraphale murmured, spilling crumbs from the package of biscuits onto the floor as he squirmed in an effort to get comfortable.

“You really are a mess sometimes, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, standing up to take the package away from him, and to Aziraphale’s compromised ears it sounded affectionate which made Aziraphale’s stomach thrum with absolutely excessive and unnecessary desire.

“I cannot deal with this,” Aziraphale said into the couch cushion currently pressed against his face.

And then, without warning, a pair of bony hands were on his shoulders sitting him up again and yellow eyes were surveying him with concern and it was too much, far too much, far too quickly.

Aziraphale flapped his hands at the demon, all elbows as he tried to regain his long neglected dignity.

They stared at each other for a moment with Crowley’s hands wrapped around his forearms before the demon abruptly pulled away. 

“Should go to bed. Shower at least,” the demon grumbled, beginning the arduous process of removing his bobby pins.

Aziraphale licked his lips, watching the slow tumble of Crowley’s hair as the demon closed his eyes with the singular focus of someone trying to avoid a hearty pinch to the scalp.

“It’s been nice. Being here,” Aziraphale said. And he meant it—but that didn’t mean he didn’t regret saying it immediately after the words left his mouth.

Crowley’s eyes slitted open, hands freezing in his hair for a moment before going back to work. “You say that now, but just wait until Warlock is walking and talking. That little girl tonight was only the half of it. Imagine the antichrist with that much energy.”

Aziraphale was forced to picture his idyllic days in the weeds smashed by the presence of little evil feet that yearned to destroy the world. Little evil feet that Aziraphale had to try to turn into happy little neutral feet.

“Perish the thought,” Aziraphale said, swallowing hard. 

He needed more biscuits.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed by [ wingittofreedom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wingittofreedom/pseuds/WingittoFreedom)  
> 

Soon after his first birthday Warlock began walking.

Shortly thereafter his babbles became words, and even though sentences were still in short supply, sometimes Aziraphale could understand him. 

And so, their work began in earnest.

**

“Cah,” Warlock announced, slamming his hand against the page of his picture book.

“Yes, _cow_ ,” Francis replied, correcting his pronunciation. “That’s where milk comes from.”

Warlock grunted and tried to crawl out of his lap onto the blanket on the lawn where Nanny Ashtoreth had left them. “Where are you going, lad?” Francis asked.

Warlock looked back at him, eyes wide and innocent, making Francis wonder if he was being played for a fool. Probably not. Warlock was only one and a half. There was no way he could be scheming yet.

“Bah,” he cried and started crawling away. Francis clambered after him and pulled him back onto the blanket.

“Not today, Warlock. Nanny’d have my hide,” he said as he settled the toddler back in his lap where he flailed his arms and made a disgruntled noise that reminded him disturbingly of Crowley in the mornings before he'd fully woken up.

“Why do I want your hide, Francis?” Nanny Ashtoreth asked as she made her way back to the blanket, water bottles in hand. The winter day had been preternaturally warm and even though Aziraphale had used far too many miracles to get his work done swiftly and make time for this afternoon rendezvous, he was still sweating a great deal. 

“No reason, sugar plum,” Francis replied brightly, liking the color Lilith turned when he used that particular endearment.

“Well, if you were in need of a hiding, of course Warlock could do it. Isn’t that right, my little prince of darkness?” Lilith cooed, still pink, hefting Warlock out of Aziraphale’s lap and setting him on his feet so he could totter off into the grass. “Don’t go too far,” she warned as if Warlock understood.

Settling onto the blanket next to Francis, Lilith tucked her legs under herself and smoothed her skirt over her knees. They sat in silence, watching the antichrist roam around the little patch of grass occasionally falling over.

“So have you seen any…” Aziraphale wasn’t sure what the right word was. “Any, er, _nefarious_ behavior on his part?”

“Warlock’s?” Crowley asked, still affecting Lilith. “Nothing outright.”

“I suppose we shouldn’t expect anything until he’s older.”

“I’ll keep you in the loop.”

**

As winter began in earnest, both Crowley and Aziraphale took the holidays to perform their normal duties in London before returning to the Dowling estate in January. 

It soon became clear that playing a loving couple excused most of their reasons for both spending time with Warlock and each other and Aziraphale began to grudgingly admit that perhaps Crowley’s off-the-wall idea was bearing fruit.

“Look, Warlock. Do you like the hydrangeas? You could destroy them with a thought,” Nanny Ashtoreth said, pointing at the flower bush. Warlock slammed his hand into one of the blooms, petals falling to the ground. Crowley looked up at Aziraphale as if to say _I win._

_Not on my watch._

“Warlock, come with me. Let’s check on that rabbit we’re taking care of.”

Francis led Warlock away by the hand so he could help him feed the rabbit whose broken leg they had set, sending a look back to Crowley. _Who’s winning now_?

**

One of the responsibilities of nannyhood that Crowley liked the least was the requirement to teach Warlock how to read. 

Difficulties with his serpentine eyesight made the endeavor especially frustrating, so Aziraphale volunteered his services. It was a fantastic excuse to be around the child and it gave Crowley the opportunity for a break, which Aziraphale was beginning to think he sorely needed. And, as always, he had trouble denying a Crowley in need.

When Warlock turned 3, Aziraphale began daily reading lessons involving very colorful books with uplifting messages. 

“See the ‘ch’ makes the chuh noise,” Aziraphale said, pointing at the picture of cheese.

“Cheese,” Warlock repeated. “I like cheese.”

“So do I dear boy,” Aziraphale replied. “Can you read this?”

He held out the book and pointed at the words beneath the picture. Screwing up his face, Warlock tried to sound out the letters, painfully slow. “Mister moose-mouse sh—shared his cheese.”

“That’s right!” Aziraphale said, making sure to pat Warlock on the head. “You’re doing a wonderful job.”

They went through some flashcards and Aziraphale had Warlock recite the alphabet one more time—he could do most of it although he always got stuck around L—before returning him to Nanny Ashtoreth where she was taking a leisurely walk through the garden. 

Well, Aziraphale expected to find her taking a leisurely walk. Instead, he found Crowley leering over the roses, harshly whispering, “You’re _pathetic._ Ugliest I’ve ever seen. You call that red? It’s _hideous._ Ungrateful, disgusting, greedy little—how _dare_ you grow like this when Francis takes such good care of you? What more do you _want?_ I’ll cut every one of you if you don’t get yourselves in line.”

Astounded, Aziraphale watched as Crowley turned to march away and caught sight of him, hand in hand with Warlock.

Crowley's face did a funny little contortion, almost as though—

But then it disappeared, replaced by a Nanny Ashtoreth smile as she took in Francis and the child. It made Aziraphale think he had imagined that strange, pained expression.

“Are you angry, Nanny?”

The child sounded tearful and it tugged at Francis’s heartstrings, pulling his attention away from Crowley. Imagine that. Empathising with the antichrist. Well, he supposed he shouldn’t expect any different. He’d already fallen in love with a demon. What else was he capable of?

“Not with you, sweetling,” Nanny said, ducking down in front of Warlock to look him in the eye." The plants are just very disappointing. And sometimes, when we want something, we have to be mean to get it.”

Francis put a hand on Warlock’s shoulder and corrected, “If you are mean, you always have to apologize.”

“Ok!” Warlock said brightly, distress falling away at the attention of the two adults he liked best in the world. “Nanny! Up!”

Crowley gave an exaggerated groan as he lifted Warlock into his arms. “You’re getting too big, Warlock.”

The toddler giggled and Aziraphale hid a grin behind his hand, forgetting about the little scene with the roses that he’d just witnessed.

**

After a long sunny Thursday in September, four weeks after Warlock’s third birthday, Aziraphale was busy weeding when he felt the curious sucking sensation in every atom in his body. Startled, Aziraphale dropped his shears, yelping when he found himself standing in Heaven’s stark white halls. He’d been recalled.

“The Principality Aziraphale?” a woman said from the reception desk in a monotone. 

Realizing he was still in Francis’s form, he shifted back to himself and rolled his shoulders—being corporeally pulled into Heaven really made the muscles tense up—before answering in the affirmative.

“Have a seat. Gabriel will be with you shortly.”

She turned back to her work and Aziraphale hesitated before asking, “Erm, excuse me.”

She looked up, expression pinched.

“Could you tell me what this is about? It was all very sudden you see—”

She flipped through the appointment book. “Regularly scheduled check-in regarding your post. You were late so we recalled you."

“Ah,” Aziraphale replied. Of course. His check in. Happened every decade. Leave it to him to forget.

Sitting down and trying to force some measure of calm, Aziraphale tried to figure out exactly how he would explain his current mission. And leave Crowley out of it. _And_ not lie, because he was dreadful at it. As time passed, his palms grew sweatier as his apprehension grew.

Just as he decided he should ask to reschedule, maybe come back another day when he was more prepared, Gabriel strode into the room, all wide imitation smiles. “Aziraphale! How’s my favorite Principality?”

_Since when am I your favorite?_

“I’m, er, doing well.”

“Come to my office. Let’s hear how Earth is doing. Cassiel, can you fetch me Aziraphale’s file?” he asked the woman at the desk who snapped her fingers before handing off a thin manila folder. “Thank you, Cassiel.”

Aziraphale followed Gabriel into his stark office and took a seat in one of the very uncomfortable white chairs as the archangel settled at his desk. “Well, this is all good news—we haven’t gotten any Excessive Use of Miracles In Non-Essential Situations memos about you in a while. I’m glad you’ve cut down.”

“Erm, I’ve actually been quite busy—”

Flipping open the file, Gabriel hummed, “Interesting. Most of your miracles have been happening outside of London. Have you moved?”

Aziraphale fiddled with his hands. “Yes, actually. That’s what I wanted to say. See, I, er, had an idea that I’ve been working on regarding the antichrist.”

Gabriel’s perfectly manicured eyebrows shot up. “The antichrist,” he said dubiously.

“Yes, see. I had this idea that, maybe, if Heaven intervened, that he could be swayed to the side of good.”

Snapping the file shut, Gabriel yelled, “Cassiel—send me Michael, Uriel and Sandolphan!”

“Yessir,” Cassiel said, her voice somehow clear even through the wall.

“Very interesting proposition but I’m not sure it could make a difference.”

The other archangels shuffled in looking as confused as three Serene beings could. “What is it Gabriel?” Uriel asked after shutting the door to the office.

Facing down four archangels was more than Aziraphale had anticipated doing that day.

“Aziraphale has proposed something very interesting. Tell them, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said, gesturing for him to continue.

So Aziraphale explained what he knew about the antichrist and what sort of work he was doing to influence him, carefully leaving out all interactions with Crowley.

When he finished, Michael and Gabriel exchanged a look that Aziraphale couldn’t quite read. “I don’t see how it could hurt. What do you think?” Michael asked the other angels.

“It would be good to know what he’s up to. How his powers are manifesting,” Uriel said to the room at large.

“ _H_ _ave_ his powers manifested?” Sandolphan asked Aziraphale.

“No, not as of yet. However he is very young.”

Gabriel looked at the archangels and then back at Aziraphale. “Well that’s that! You may continue. Nice initiative, Aziraphale.”

“Well, er, thank you.”

Gabriel waved a hand at him. “Run along. I’m sure you have work to do.”

And with that, Aziraphale felt himself being sucked back to Earth, the same tingling sensation running through him. 

Oh bother!

Plopped down in the flowerbed with no consideration for his location, he found himself on his hands and knees in a tangle of pansies and mud. Stuff and bother indeed. He’d worked hard on those.

Transforming back into Francis and picking himself up, Aziraphale gathered his tools from where he had dropped them upon being summoned, he returned to the house, the swiftly cooling night bringing a measure of calm to his rattled nerves. They hadn’t asked any questions he couldn’t answer. In fact, it sounded like they were barely paying attention. Three years and they hadn’t even known he’d moved! 

When he returned to the cottage, he sighed and walked back to the bedroom. He wanted a shower to rid himself of the fresh splotches of mud on his knees and hands, and would have immediately gotten one if he hadn’t opened the bedroom door only to be assaulted by _Crowley_ who pushed him against the wall, hands running over his body as if to check that nothing was broken.

“You’re alright,” Crowley said, sounding unimaginably relieved.

“Yes?” Aziraphale choked out, going limp, not sure why Crowley was suddenly so concerned.

Crowley bared his teeth, an expression that Aziraphale knew proceeded a good tongue-lashing.

“How _dare_ you disappear like that? Without leaving a note? You absolute dunce. Buffoon! I thought you’d been _discorporated._ I thought—”

“I’m alright—Crowley. I’m alright,” Aziraphale squeaked, finding himself trapped in the cage of Crowley’s arms. He felt like he couldn’t move. Not because Crowley was holding him down but because he didn’t _want_ to. The demon was too close, almost pressed against him. It felt like a ridiculous parody of everything Aziraphale had wanted and still not enough.

Crowley growled in frustration, shaking him. “You are not _listening_ to me. You never _listen._ ”

“I am listening,” Aziraphale breathed, heart beating too fast. “Please—” he began, not sure what he was going to ask for.

“Shut _up_ ,” Crowley snarled and then hands were fisting in his smock and Aziraphale was being pressed harder against the wall, and _oh,_ the ground was tumbling away because Crowley’s mouth was on his, harsh and angry but so so _good_ and...

Gone.

Reeling back, Crowley’s face drained of color, anger disappearing to be replaced by fear and—

The demon stumbled back, crashing into the metal bars of the footboard and tumbling over them backwards onto the bed. “I shouldn’t’ve—”

No. Aziraphale couldn’t hear this. 

One moment, Aziraphale was certain he was still flat against the wall. The next he was on top of Crowley, yanking him back into a kiss that was more teeth than anything, given force by the urgency he felt.

But it didn’t seem to matter to Crowley whose hands had made their way into his hair, tugging him closer as the demon whimpered into his mouth. 

_This means something, he wants this too._

And for a moment, he let himself believe it. That it wasn’t just an outlet for Crowley’s misplaced anger, or finding a new way to entertain himself. Or perhaps it wasn’t even new to him…

Aziraphale pushed the thought away, banishing the fierce jealousy that came with it. _Doesn’t matter._

Pulling back, Aziraphale removed Crowley’s sunglasses. Crowley took the opportunity to surge up and push Aziraphale onto his back, surprising the angel into dropping the glasses off the bed. Crowley smirked and crawled on top of him. 

Before Aziraphale could protest, Crowley was pressing open mouth kissed down his neck, soft words dropping from his lips between each kiss, murmuring “So much...so much. No idea...that you...I…”

Terrified of hearing Crowley’s excuses, Aziraphale ignored his quiet words. On the verge of combusting, he didn’t think he could take the emotional weight of knowing why Crowley had suddenly decided to take advantage of Aziraphale’s feelings.

As Crowley kept kissing him, a steadily increasing pressure took root in Aziraphale's abdomen. It was that first Halloween all over again, surrounded by the scent of Crowley’s perfume with need building inside of him. When Crowley’s hand found its way into his trousers, Aziraphale made a noise he didn’t think he’d ever made before in all his 6000 years.

“You like that?” Crowley asked, breathless and all Aziraphale could do was nod.

“You’ll like this more,” he said and then Aziraphale’s trousers were being opened, gone and, _oh my,_ his _penis_ was in Crowley’s _mouth_ and combustion seemed more and more likely, until he felt positive flames were engulfing him, hot but soft and oh, wait, _please_...

The snap of his orgasm was like a spark bursting behind his eyes, tingling across his scalp, and consuming him entirely.

After taking several deep, shaking breaths, Aziraphale opened his eyes looked down at Crowley only to see him gazing up from his perch between Aziraphale’s thighs, red nails stark against the angel’s pale skin. Overwhelmed by his own feelings, Aziraphale pulled at Crowley’s clothes, hoping the demon would take the hint and remove them, his own fingers slow and fumbling. The need was different now. Not the heady pulse of want in his belly but a desperate urge to see Crowley fall apart. To _see Crowley._

Sure enough, after working his way through a few buttons on his blouse, Crowley tugged everything off until he was only in that black slip, the one that had been the focus of so many of Aziraphale’s half-suppressed fantasies.

When he went to take that off too, Aziraphale stopped him. “Leave it on.”

That earned him a smirk as Crowley shimmied out of his panties, slip still on, straddling Aziraphale again, and the angel could feel a hardness pressing into his belly.

Some choice words drifted through Aziraphale’s mind, ones that he would never dare repeating aloud.

_Want to taste you. Want you._

Using his hands, he pulled Crowley up his body until his knees were around Aziraphale’s shoulders. Rucking up the slip, Aziraphale lifted his head so that he could take Crowley into his mouth.

Crowley’s head fell back, breaths and moans of pleasure making Aziraphale feel more powerful than he had in years, more than any miracle he thinks he’s ever performed. Thrusting into Aziraphale’s mouth, Crowley’s hands dropped to the headboard, making it creak as Aziraphale urged him deeper, gripping the bones of his hips with still muddy hands. 

“Ah, fuck,” Crowley said on a harsh exhale.

_Just this once. Please let me have this._

Aziraphale closed his eyes and sucked, mimicking some of Crowley’s more inspired movements from moments before, and then the taste of bitter salt was on his tongue and he swallowed as Crowley pulled away, collapsing onto his chest, his incoherent curls falling over Aziraphale’s face and doing their best to get into his mouth.

In the breaths between them, Aziraphale’s lingering arousal drained quickly, only to be replaced by embarrassment and shame when, too soon, Crowley slithered from the bed and into the bathroom.

“Ugh, my lipstick’s a mess,” he said, looking at himself in the mirror. 

Rolling slowly onto his side, Aziraphale and watched as Crowley brushed the hair back from his face and began the arduous task of removing the makeup smeared across his lips. 

This was wrong. Crowley shouldn’t be talking about lipstick right now. Aziraphale shouldn’t have been the one to smear it. He could still feel the place where Crowley should have been beside him and strains of music and bits of poetry drifted into his rattled mind making him think things like _“I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world._ ”

Crowley paused and looked over at him. “What’s that, angel?”

Aziraphale swallowed hard. He’d said that aloud hadn’t he. “Nothing. Just something I remembered from my reading.”

_What is wrong with me?_

“Are you reading something new?” Crowley asked, casually before going back to removing his makeup.

“No,” Aziraphale answered, amazed that he could sound so normal. “Old stuff. Remember O’Hara?”

“Hmm,” Crowley grunted, finishing up with another quick scrub of his lips. When he turned back to Aziraphale they were puffy and pink and— _“I_ _wouldn't want to be faster or greener than now if you were with me._ Or something like that,” the demon said with a shrug.

“Did you read it?” Aziraphale asked, surprised, catching the wet washcloth that Crowley tossed him.

“I got lipstick on you,” Crowley said by way of explanation. “And no, pretty sure you read that one to me.”

Instead of using the towel, Aziraphale stood up and went into the bathroom to shower. He was still muddy from the garden. More importantly, he desperately needed to be alone.

The second the water hit him, he gasped, whatever temporary dam he’d put in place breaking. 

He’d slept with Crowley. He’d _slept_ with Crowley. He still wanted to sleep with Crowley. Very much, again and again. Had for years. But that was beside the point. He wasn’t _supposed_ to sleep with Crowley. 

Oh why had this happened? Why had Crowley kissed him? Was it just another stupid reckless Crowley thing, like taking up opium for a few years or sleeping for a century?

Was this a game for him? Another temptation to accomplish? What could Crowley _possibly_ get out of seducing him after all this time? 

What if Heaven found out?

It didn’t bear thinking about.

Shutting off the water, Aziraphale sighed. It wouldn’t do to anguish over it. What was done was done and all that was left was for him to deal with the fall out.

“Doesn’t have to mean anything,” he mumbled to himself as he dressed in his favorite pajamas, a little comfort for the night ahead. “A jolly good time but once was enough, don’t you think Aziraphale?”

When he exited the bathroom, he found Crowley propped up in bed, O’Hara’s collected works in hand, and a scowl on his face as he silently mouthed the words. The bed was still a mess with Aziraphale’s dirty handprints on the quilt. He was about to reprimand Crowley for not cleaning things up but the demon began to read.

“Have you forgotten what we were like then / when we were still first rate / and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth,” Crowley read, in a passing American accent, affecting O’Hara himself. 

Coming up to the bed, Aziraphale ran a hand over the quilt, banishing the filth with a quick miracle. What—

 _“_ It's no use worrying about Time / but we did have a few tricks—” Crowley frowned, dropping into his own voice. “No, that’s not the bit I’m looking for.” 

Aziraphale sat hesitantly on the edge of the bed. He knew this poem. _Animals._ It was a love poem. One of Frank’s most famous.

Not sure if Crowley would hear him, Aziraphale continued the poem, "The whole pasture looked like our meal / we didn't need speedometers / we could manage cocktails out of ice and water _."_

“I like that part about speedometers, but no again,” Crowley said, his eyes going half-lidded as he met Aziraphale’s gaze.

Crowley shut the book.

 _“_ You said the last line earlier,” Aziraphale said, certain his heart would break if he spoke too loudly. _“_ I wouldn't want to be faster / or greener than now if you were with me O you / were the best of all my days. _”_

“The best of all my days,” Crowley confirmed. “That’s it. What I was looking for.”

They sat in heavy silence for a moment and Aziraphale wished he had the courage to ask _Why? What’s happening? What do you want?_

And then the book was on the end table and Crowley was tugging him back against the pillows and tucking himself into his side. It was like Japan but better because Crowley was awake and doing this because he _wanted_ to. And Aziraphale’s heart cracked just a little bit more.

He promised himself they could talk about it in the morning.

**

Aziraphale woke to an empty bed. Memories of the night before swirled through him and made his stomach drop. 

_Oh dear._

Aziraphale squared his shoulders. What he had thought last night didn’t change in the light of day. He had indulged once and that was it. He shouldn’t use Crowley’s willingness to...to...engage in matters of the flesh in order to assuage his own desperate urges to feel loved. Once was enough. Anything else would be folly.

 _Thou shalt not eat stones,_ he reminded himself.

Marching out of the bedroom, ready to face a long day of weeding and pruning, Aziraphale walked into the kitchen for his habitual cup of morning tea and froze.

Crowley was standing by the stove, whistling as he fiddled with the burner, kettle already filled, just waiting to boil.

Aziraphale took in the sight. Crowley, mussed, in his wrinkled satin slip, focused entirely on the task in front of him, he was—

He was wearing the ring. Three years since Aziraphale had seen it on his finger and now the ruby winked in the bright morning light.

Crowley turned around and smiled at him. Not one of those mocking smiles or the cruel ones where his lips twisted slightly to the left. No, a real one, bright and joyful and so beautiful the final dregs of Aziraphale’s pitiful resolve melted away under the power of it. He tried to gather his words once more.

_We’re allowed to make mistakes._

_Let’s pretend it didn’t happen._

But when Crowley leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth, all Aziraphale could manage was, “G—good morning. When do you leave for work?”

Crowley’s hands came down to Aziraphale’s hips, fingers sinking into the soft flesh, and the smile grew. “That’s the good news. Harriet has the day off and wants to spend time with Warlock. I can be here. All. Day.”

He punctuated each word with a kiss. One on Aziraphale’s mouth, a brief thing. One at the corner of his jaw. Another on his neck.

Aziraphale squeaked and pulled away. “I do have to get some work done.”

“Let me change and I’ll come with you.”

Aziraphale blinked at him.

“You know, the puttering gardener’s smitten wife,” Crowley said, mouth taking on a teasing cant.

“Er, alright,” Aziraphale said and Crowley breezed from the room, leaving him to stare at the kettle which promptly started to whistle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poems referenced  
> [Having a Coke With You](https://poets.org/poem/having-coke-you)  
> [Animals](https://genius.com/Frank-ohara-animals-annotated)  
> (both by O'Hara of course)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shout out to wingittofreedom who edited this chapter through its...ups and downs

Aziraphale snipped the roses, acutely aware of Nanny Ashtoreth who was sitting on the low wall behind him, _smiling of all things_. Fairly certain the demon was laughing at him, Aziraphale kept his focus on his shears.

“You know you have to prune more than that,” Crowley commented as he picked at his nails.

Aziraphale huffed. Leave it to Crowley to sleep with him and then spend the next day hovering, criticizing his every move. It wasn’t enough to flay Aziraphale’s heart open, the demon had to poke at the wound. “They seem to be doing fine.”

“They could be doing better,” Crowley said, slipping onto his feet and sauntering over only to run his hands over the line of Aziraphale’s shoulders and whisper in his ear, “Why don’t you miracle them right and we can go back inside?”

Aziraphale shivered as the scent of lavender surrounded him. “There’s something to be said for good old-fashioned manual labor.”

For a moment, Crowley disappeared as Nanny Ashtoreth took over, pulling Aziraphale over to face her and saying, “You know, Francis, I could take this opportunity to kiss you silly in the rose garden, but I think you’d prefer some privacy for what I have in mind.”

Heart racing, Aziraphale looked around. What was happening? Did Crowley think their coupling the night before was tacit permission to play up the physical aspects of their pretend relationship? Was he just looking for entertainment now that he found Aziraphale willing?

Whatever question he could think to ask was kissed away as Crowley bent his head and caught his mouth, the slight pressure becoming more insistent when Aziraphale’s mouth went slack against his better judgment.

Something inside him sighed and his body went loose as a newly familiar heat curled through him.

“What do you say, angel?” Crowley whispered before nipping at his earlobe.

Aziraphale whimpered. “Right, yes. I—”

Not having to be told twice, Crowley tugged him through the back door of the cottage, already pulling Aziraphale’s smock over his head and throwing it to the floor of the mud room as he herded Aziraphale into the kitchen.

They didn’t make it to the bedroom, Crowley crowding him against the kitchen counter and unbuttoning his trousers. “I want you inside me,” he said, sliding Aziraphale’s trousers down about his knees.

The angel’s brain short-circuited. “Wuh—”

“Hold on,” Crowley said, face shifting momentarily as his eyes went glassy and then he dropped to his knees to slowly take Aziraphale into his mouth. 

Oh goodness, Crowley looked good on his knees.

Pulling away from him with an obscene sound, Crowley gazed up at Aziraphale through his lashes. “Are you ready?”

“Are _you_? Don’t I need to…” Aziraphale made an oblique gesture. He hadn’t had penetrative sex before but he was fairly certain it involved some preparation between two people with penises.

Crowley shook his head with a wicked grin. “Nah, I switched things up for fun. I fancied the multiple orgasms bit.”

Hiking up his skirt, Crowley hopped up onto the counter and pulled Aziraphale between his legs. “See?” he said proudly.

The juncture of Crowley’s thighs was unbelievably warm and... _wet_. Unable to resist, Aziraphale slipped his hand under Crowley’s panties and caught his breath when his fingers found soft slick folds. That was _quite_ different.

Crowley squirmed at the contact but pulled him closer, wrapping a cool hand around his erection before pulling his own knickers aside and pressing it inside himself. As if from a long distance, Aziraphale heard himself gasp before the pleasure flooding his body made him begin to move.

Sharp breaths heated Aziraphale’s cheek as Crowley came up to meet him, the push-pull of their bodies creating an overwhelming surge of pleasure, making Aziraphale think of whirlpools and drowning.

“Oh, holy—damn—” Crowley gasped, teeth sinking into Aziraphale’s shoulder, making him hiss. “Like that.”

Aziraphale had no idea what he was doing so he just kept moving, letting the string of his own pleasure guide him as Crowley’s gasps grew in pitch. It was addictive, hearing those sounds.

He closed his eyes and felt Crowley’s fingers in his hair yanking him down into a kiss that he felt in his toes as the timing of Crowley’s movement began to falter. On a guttural groan, the demon's nails scraped through his hair and Aziraphale felt Crowley’s orgasm, an intense pulse fluttering around him.

The sensation made something break inside of Aziraphale, a lantern cracking in half and catching fire. He burned as he followed Crowley over the edge.

When he was able to focus once more he made a concerted effort to pry his fingers from Crowley’s waist. The demon’s grumble turned to a gasp when Aziraphale went to his knees before him on the counter, tugging off his panties and tracing the folds of his vagina with his thumb, dipping his fingers into the semen leaking from him. Knees trembling, Crowley’s head thunked against the cupboard when Aziraphale pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his crumpled trousers and used the soft material to remove the evidence of their love-ma—sex.

 _It’s only sex_ , Aziraphale reminded himself, focusing on the awe he felt at the opportunity to even be between Crowley’s legs. To be so close to him. On impulse, he leaned in and licked tentatively over the pink flesh in front of him. It tasted of his own spendings, but he didn’t care. It was Crowley against his tongue. Those were Crowley’s hands in his hair. Crowley’s thighs shaking about his ears as he came for second time. 

Aziraphale rose up and found himself being thoroughly kissed, wet and desperate as Crowley clutched at him. 

Eventually the pace slowed and Aziraphale pulled away to lean against against the counter realizing he still had his pants around his ankles and his smock was somewhere on the floor of the mudroom. 

“Have you ever done that before?” Crowley asked, sounding a bit ravished if Aziraphale was any judge of that sort of thing.

“Why? Was it bad?” he asked, a flare of self-consciousness heating his cheeks.

Crowley hopped off the counter and pulled down his skirt. “I don’t really have anything to compare it to. Felt downright sinful though...” he trailed off as he wrangled his hair back into place.

Now Aziraphale really _did_ blush. Could Crowley be as inexperienced as he was?

Not wanting to think too hard about it, Aziraphale sank a hand into Crowley’s nearly fixed hair and the demon gave an irritated cry, “Oi! I just—”

Ignoring the protest Aziraphale kissed him, trying his best to pour every ounce of longing into the touch that he could muster. And it must have worked on some level because when he pulled away, Crowley looked at him, slightly dazed. 

“You said something about multiple orgasms?” Aziraphale asked with more confidence than he felt. “Want to try for another then?”

It was Crowley’s turn to trail after Aziraphale as the angel led him to the bedroom.

**

A few hours later, when the afternoon sun was at its brightest, Crowley peeled away from Aziraphale to putter into the bathroom. Aziraphale rolled over to watch him at the sink, washing his face and piling his thick hair into a bun. 

“I’ve got to pop out for a bit, but I’ll be back later,” Crowley said from the bathroom. “Just a little business. Need anything?”

Aziraphale shook his head, not exactly trusting his voice. He felt strung out, thin as a tightrope and just as precarious. It wasn’t what he had hoped he would feel after doing something like this with Crowley. He felt silly now for thinking it would be any different.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Crowley said with a smirk before closing the bedroom door. Flopping onto his back, Aziraphale stared at the ceiling of the bedroom he had shared with Crowley off and on for 3 years.

He’d made a right mess of things. 

**

“Aziraphale?” 

The angel sat up at the sound of his name. He was settled in bed, Frank O’Hara in hand—the bastard was calling to him with his stupid treatises on longing—when Crowley strolled in, a steaming package in his hand.

“I brought you something,” Crowley said as he set the bag in Aziraphale’s lap.

Bewildered, Aziraphale opened it.

Aziraphale’s stomach flipped when he peeked inside. “Are these—”

“Thought I’d pick some up,” Crowley replied dismissively. 

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale said, hands dropping as the paper bag crumpled beneath them. 

Something in his voice must have made Crowley uncomfortable because he looked away. “Don’t get all sappy over it.”

“Really. You had to go all the way to Japan!”

Crowley shrugged. “I was in Tokyo on other business. Just enjoy the bloody things,” he huffed, looking out over the rose garden.

Pulling out one of the still steaming red bean buns, Aziraphale couldn’t stop the smile that broke out over his face. “Share with me?” he asked.

“Oh alright, but I still think they’re too sweet,” Crowley said, sounding long suffering as always but for a moment Aziraphale saw the genuine smile peek out behind his sunglasses in the play of his eyebrows.

Satisfied, Aziraphale pulled out two of them and handed one to the demon.

“Do you remember the lamb we had in Madrid?” Crowley asked after taking a bite.

“Hmm. Was it with Manuel? At the vineyard?” Aziraphale licked the remnant of red bean from the corner of his mouth. Delicious.

“The very same.”

“Yes. What about it?”

“I think it was the most delighted I’ve ever seen you be about food. Which is saying something,” Crowley responded as he handed another bun to Aziraphale who gleefully took it. “I think you scared Manuel.”

Bun halfway to his mouth, Aziraphale gave Crowley a glare and the demon continued, “What? You absolutely did. The way you nearly ripped that shank out of his hand.”

“It’s not my fault you don’t appreciate the finer things about existence.”

“I think I appreciate them just fine,” Crowley murmured, putting a hand on Aziraphale’s thigh and giving him a look that made the angel blush.

Folding up the bag to save the rest of his treats for later, Aziraphale straightened. “Why don’t we go on a walk? The weather is lovely today.”

“I need to put myself together if we’re going out.”

Aziraphale took in his messy hair and untucked blouse. It wasn’t as neat as normal but… “I think you look lovely the way you are.”

“Oh, erm, alright,” Crowley said, looking down at his hands. “Let’s go then.”

Walking in silence through the garden, they were a little more awkward than Aziraphale would have liked, but he supposed having sex with your friend of several millennia could irrevocably change things between you. 

“I’ve been thinking about growing pumpkins next year,” Aziraphale offered, a potentially safe conversation topic.

“You have to keep an eye on those, you know,” Crowley said as they came to a stop by a bench beside the topiary. “Turn them regularly.”

Aziraphale took a seat and doffed his cap, feeling Francis’s curls puff around his ears. “But they seem nice and autumnal, don’t you think? Better than tomatoes.”

“Just because the tomatoes don’t like you doesn’t mean you have to give up on them.”

Crowley lowered himself onto the bench and they sat in the quiet for a bit, the sun setting in the distance and turning the world as orange as, well, a pumpkin. 

Deciding he had to say _something_ —anything to dispel the coiled tension inside him, Aziraphale began, “I enjoyed today, you know.”

“Me too, angel,” Crowley replied with a wicked grin, one that wasn’t quite as wicked as usual. He migrated from his side of the bench, nearly into Aziraphale’s lap.

And then Crowley was slipping his tongue into Aziraphale’s mouth and Aziraphale found he liked when Nanny Ashtoreth’s hair was down because he didn’t encounter bobby pins when he ran his fingers through it.

_It doesn’t matter what it means, so long as you can have this._

The sound of a throat clearing made them pull apart. 

Harriet stood behind them looking thoroughly embarrassed. “Sorry! So sorry! I was—well, Warlock and I were on a walk.”

Aziraphale’s gaze dropped to the toddler next to Harriet who was looking at them with a frown. 

“Nanny?” he asked, taking his hand from his mother and then toddling over to the bench to pat at Crowley’s knees.

“Why hello dearie,” Nanny said, not looking embarrassed at all as he lifted Warlock onto the bench with them. “How was your day?”

“Where were you?”

“I had the day off. Did you have fun with your mum?” Nanny asked when Warlock gave an irritated huff.

Warlock clambered to his feet, putting his hands on the back of the bench. “Mummy!”

Harriet smiled indulgently and came up to them. “Yes, Warlock?”

“We read a book.”

“We did,” she confirmed. “Do you want to ask Nanny and Francis what we talked about?”

Warlock brightened. “Nanny! Want to go to the zoo with us?”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a look. 

“We were thinking of going tomorrow,” Harriet explained. “And Warlock kept asking if you’d be there.”

“We’d love to come,” Francis answered.

Warlock cheered. 

Retrieving Warlock from the bench, Harriet said, “Let’s meet at the house at 10?”

“We’ll be there,” Francis confirm and when the Dowlings disappeared into the topiary he turned back to Crowley who gave him a small, knowing smile. What he knew, Aziraphale had no idea.

A very strange day.

**

They settled into the living room and instead of sitting in his chair, Crowley stretched out on the sofa and laid his head in Aziraphale’s lap as they watched Jeopardy, the demon occasionally scoffing at wrong answers.

Staring down at Crowley’s head, Aziraphale warred with himself before giving into the impulse to run his hands through Crowley’s curls, enjoying the pleased noises the demon made, trying to live in the moment.

Because whatever this was, Crowley would get bored of it eventually. Like he got bored of everything.

**

“Ready to go, Francis?” Crowley asked, pinning his hat in place. Aziraphale jerked to attention realizing he’d been twisting his own hat in his hands and staring at Nanny Ashtoreth in the entryway.

“Of course,” Aziraphale said mechanically, opening the door and gesturing Crowley through. The demon gave him a strange look, but walked ahead of him, leading the way to the main house.

Harriet was busy packing Warlock’s bag when they got to the main hall. At the sight of them, she audibly sighed in relief and pushed the bag into Crowley’s hands. “Here’s Warlock’s things. I wanted to go with you but a last minute client thing came up and Warlock was so looking forward to it and…”

“It’s alright dear,” Nanny said, placing a calming hand on Harriet’s arm. “It would be our pleasure to take young Warlock.”

Harriet let out a long breath. “You are a lifesaver. Warlock’s in his room and I’ll tell Pearson to call the car.”

Francis nodded and took the opportunity to trundle up the stairs and retrieve Warlock, who he found seated on his bed looking particularly glum.

“What’s got you looking so sad, Warlock?” Francis asked from the doorway.

“Mum promised she’d go to the zoo and now she won’t.”

Francis hummed and tapped at his chin, being a little overdramatic for the sake of the scene he wanted to play out. “Well, sometimes being an adult means we have to do things we don’t want to. That’s called being responsible and your mother is very responsible. But just because she can’t go with us today, doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you.”

Warlock huffed and Francis wasn’t sure if his words had hit their target. “We’ll still be going with you. Nanny and I.”

That seemed to brighten Warlock right up. “We can see the penguins!”

“Yes we can. And the tigers and the birds. All God’s creatures you know.”

Warlock ignored him, instead grabbing his jacket and running out of the room so quickly that Francis had to jog to keep up.

When Warlock excitedly slammed into Nanny Ashtoreth’s knees, she put a hand down on to his hair and met Aziraphale’s eyes, giving him a look so affectionate that it made his heart skip a beat.

Kneeling down, Harriet took Warlock’s hand in hers and said, “Be good for Nanny today.”

Warlock stuck his tongue out at her and she pursed her lips. “That wasn’t very polite young man.”

After a moment’s pause Warlock added, “I’m sorry.”

“Good boy,” Harriet said, kissing his head. She looked up at Nanny Ashtoreth with an apologetic smile. “Thank you, again.”

Nanny nodded and tugged at Warlock’s hand. “Let’s go dearie.”

Aziraphale gave Harriet a brief wave and followed them out the door.

**

Shrieking in joy, Warlock clapped his hands. “Tigers!”

“Do you like the tigers, Warlock?” Francis asked, pulling Warlock away from the glass so he would stop slapping his hand against it.

Warlock nodded firmly. “They’re orange.”

Warlock’s latest favorite color was orange. The week prior it had been blue and before that black which had honestly had Aziraphale worried, thinking perhaps Crowley had finally gotten to him.

“Tigers are predators, Warlock,” Nanny said, reaching down to take his other hand. “Very powerful, just like you.”

“Do you want to see the penguins?” Francis offered after giving Nanny a warning glare. Crowley smirked back.

Warlock nodded enthusiastically and brought up his arms. “Up!” he demanded, so Francis knelt and hefted him into his arms. He _was_ getting rather big.

Several enclosures later, they sat on a bench taking a break from all the excitement to share a snack with Warlock. When Nanny handed him some grapes and he threw them on the ground. “No!” he shrieked.

Aziraphale looked sadly at the wasted grapes. He loved grapes.

“Warlock, that was very rude,” Nanny said in a voice that Aziraphale had never heard before, firm and reprimanding. A voice that immediately made Warlock sit up and look contrite and even Aziraphale felt himself sit a little straighter.

At Francis’s surprised look, Nanny raised her eyebrows. “What? Manners are important, Francis.”

“I don’t disagree, sugar plum.”

And there was that delightful pink color—the one that Aziraphale now knew accompanied Crowley’s moans as he came.

What a very inappropriate line of thought. They were with a _child_.

He squirmed in his seat and looked away.

“Drink your water, dearie,” Nanny instructed, and Warlock immediately did as he was asked.

**

Crowley was kissing him. Again. They had barely gotten inside the cottage after returning from the zoo before Crowley’s hands were on him, tugging at his hair and kneading the flesh at his hips. “So pretty,” Crowley said as began to kiss his neck.

And then Aziraphale was absolutely certain he needed a drink.

Extricating himself from Crowley’s grasping embrace, he managed to offer Crowley the much needed drink. Even if his voice was a little more high pitched than normal. 

Looking a bit taken aback, Crowley nodded. “Sure. Are you in the mood for anything in particular?”

“How about a nice cabernet?”

Crowley hummed and strolled into the living room, leaving Aziraphale to wander into the kitchen and quietly lose his mind.

He gripped the edge of the counter— _oh no_ , they’d had sex there.

Ripping himself away, he went to the sink and splashed water on his face in a futile attempt to cool down. What was happening?

Crowley seemed so—

So _affectionate._

Aziraphale pulled down two glasses and miracled a bottle of cabernet he remembered liking a great deal and then looked despondently into the dining room where the rose that hadn’t stopped blooming since their first week stared back at him unhelpfully. 

Taking a deep breath, he returned to the living room and saw Crowley setting up the record player. “How would you feel about Fleetwood Mac?” he asked, focusing as he flipped through the records beside the turntable.

Having no idea who that was, Aziraphale told him to play anything he liked and got to pouring two very hearty glasses of wine.

“Trying to get me drunk, angel?” Crowley said with a flirtatious smile when he took the glass from Aziraphale.

“We both know I wouldn’t have to try,” Aziraphale said, proud of himself for resorting to their normal banter and then nearly spilling his wine when Crowley tugged him into his lap. 

“Really, I’m far too heavy for this,” Aziraphale said, trying to straighten up and find his own seat.

“Let me be the judge,” Crowley said as he began to pull open the tie of Aziraphale’s smock. 

Slapping away his questing fingers, Aziraphale said, “Hands to yourself, my dear.”

Crowley gave him a look that Aziraphale could only categorize as a pout, but let the angel pull away. The demon sank down to the floor and settled between Aziraphale’s legs, back pressed against the couch. “Better?” he asked before taking a long sip of his wine and then resting his head against Aziraphale’s knee.

“Fine,” Aziraphale answered, taking a large sip of wine to chase the tightness from his throat. 

And then, like usual, they got roaring drunk while quizzing each other on more and more obscure memories ( _"What was the name of that play we went to see at the turn of the 19th century?” “Town and Country, Crowley, how could you forget?”_ ). Not like usual, Crowley kept trying to settle into his lap until eventually he gave up the battle with an exasperated look and curled on the far side of the sofa. 

“I can’t believe you think the best part of the 70s was the _protests_. Havoc for sure but the _music_ , Aziraphale. Like nothing else,” Crowley said, slurring as he swung his hand out in an emphatic gesture.

Aziraphale slurped his wine and said, “The music in the 70s was abominable.”

Crowley’s eyes widened comically. “What about this? Fleetwood Mac?”

“Not as bad as Fall Out Boy,” Aziraphale said after listening for a moment.

“You know, I love you but you truly have the most questionable tastes.”

For a moment, time kept moving and Azirphale felt like nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. He would say some sort of witty rejoinder and Crowley would bicker and they would go on with their life.

And then the moment was over all at once as everything inside him constricted, thoughts narrowing until all he could hear was _love,_ the word growing bigger and louder until it drowned out everything else. Looking at Crowley, his mouth going dry, the demon cocked his head as his eyebrows drew together. 

“What?” he asked, confused, but even as he spoke, a look of realization came over Crowley’s face, as if his brain had finally caught up with his mouth, and he started to turn red.

 _Love_.

Did he really—

How—

Tossing aside all his half formed questions, he practically launched himself across the couch, pulling Crowley to him, kissing him squarely on the mouth. He heard a little oof of surprise, followed by the sound of a wine glass shattering as it hit the ground but he ignored it. Crowley _loved_ him. Nothing else mattered. 

Overwhelmed, he fell into the kiss, his own feelings echoing in the back of his mind. _I love you. Do you mean it? Please mean it._

Crowley met his enthusiasm with his own, pushing him down onto the couch while kissing him hard, before Aziraphale slowed his movements, turning the kiss long and languorous, a delicious thrum that felt as if it went on forever.

They fell asleep between these sweet kisses, the warmth of each other and the lull of wine pulling them into sleep.

** 

Aziraphale awoke to a mouthful of red hair. 

Crowley was sprawled atop him, snoring into Aziraphale’s breast pocket and looking something of a fright with his smeared mascara. 

Crowley’s words from the night before came back to him and he felt a rush of happiness. As it faded, a feeling Aziraphale didn’t recognize wormed its way to the forefront of his mind, heavy and ominous. _There’s no way he meant it the way you took it. He barely said it. A slip of the tongue._

He closed his eyes against the thought.

Resolving himself to a horribly distracted day, he brushed the hair from his mouth and shook Crowley’s shoulder until he stirred.

“Morning, angel,” Crowley said around a yawn, bleary eyed and soft about the mouth. The vulnerability of it made his doubts grow as he felt an inevitable swell of love. 

_I love you, do you really…?_ _Could you…?_

Oh dear, he was going to cry wasn’t he.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat he said, “You should get to work, my dear.”

Sitting up, Crowley blinked out the window and scowled. “It’s morning.”

“Very observant of you,” Aziraphale replied, hoping Crowley would get up and leave swiftly. He wanted to be alone. He didn’t want Crowley to see him. To have the demon ask questions.

“Ah yes, the flowers never rest,” Crowley said, a teasing note in his voice.

“They don’t do they,” Aziraphale murmured, running a hand through his hair. Crowley looked at him quizzically but didn’t question him, snapping his fingers, coiffing himself with a thought.

Crowley leaned down and kissed him softly. “See you tonight, angel.”

“Tonight,” Aziraphale confirmed and the second the door shut, he dropped his head into his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry for how painful this chapter is. thank you for all the comments and kudos!  
> i dont write unhappy endings so i promise things get better


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not that ive been particularly canon compliant but book canon states that nanny and francis leave when Warlock is six so im sticking with that  
> again beta'ed by [ wingittofreedom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wingittofreedom/pseuds/WingittoFreedom) who called me on my bullshit and made me finally post this chapter

_Aziraphale,_

_Warlock has taken ill and I’ll be staying at the house through the worst of it._

_\- Crowley_

Aziraphale looked at the hastily scribbled message in his hand and then back at the wardrobe where the hangers were all akimbo, blouses and skirts tugged away, evidence of a hastily packed overnight bag.

He wandered into the bathroom and saw Crowley’s make-up bag missing.

Returning to the bedroom, he dropped onto the mattress and crumpled the note in his hand. 

A week. A week since Crowley had said he loved him.

 _I love you but_ …

It was the possibility of exception that caught in Aziraphale’s mind.

_I love you but just for now_

_I love you but not the way you’re thinking_

Aziraphale smoothed out the note and set it on the side table before standing and organizing the mess Crowley left behind in the wardrobe. 

In the years since Aziraphale had realized his feelings, he had pondered on exactly what could happen if Crowley finally returned them. It had seemed unlikely. That conversation from their first year together was more along the lines of what Aziraphale had always expected.

_I’ve been dealing with our difference of feeling for years._

Another though edged its way in.

_What if he’s taking advantage?_

Aziraphale tried to remind himself that he could trust Crowley. The demon had saved his life multiple times. They were _friends_ or something like it. But friendship was not the only thing Aziraphale wanted and he couldn’t shake his doubts.

Aziraphale ran a hand through his hair and went into the kitchen. What he wouldn’t give for dinner at a nice restaurant. 

Instead, he made himself a hot toddy—Crowley’s love of whiskey was slowly influencing him—and a toasted cheese sandwich. It felt like he was playing a part. The gardener returning home after a long day, eating a working man’s dinner and missing his wife.

Oh how he missed his wife.

No matter his fears and doubts Aziraphale still loved Crowley, still felt that skip in his stomach whenever he did something kind, still felt ruled by his entirely unangelic desires.

What could have happened to bring about this Crowley who seemed unable to contain his affection? Aziraphale had _told_ him how he felt just three years ago and Crowley had let him lay out his heart before dismissing it in the same cool way he managed to dismiss everything.

Aziraphale could only think that Crowley believed his feelings were real. That some turn of the last three years had drawn Crowley into Aziraphale’s own feelings. Perhaps the game they were playing had truly influenced him. So often pretending to be in love with Aziraphale had made him think it was true. Or, more likely, the forced intimacy made Crowley wonder what it would be like to indulge Aziraphale’s feelings.

And so, he would indulge them until it wasn’t interesting anymore, and one day look down at Aziraphale and say, “That was nice but let’s leave it behind. It’s a little tiring. You mooning over me. We can still be friends.”

Aziraphale realized the kettle was whistling so he went through the motions of making his dinner before sitting down at the dining room table feeling slow and heavy. He could picture Crowley, coming home and brushing a kiss across his cheek, sitting across from him and smiling. The image brought as much distress as it brought joy. 

He so desperately wanted this to be real. For Crowley to want to be with him. More than friends. More than the Arrangement. What would happen if he entertained Crowley’s passing fancy by letting this continue?

_Heaven would punish you._

_They hardly pay attention to you,_ he countered, knowing that was just an excuse to avoid his next thought.

 _It will break your heart when he leaves_.

_My heart has been breaking for long enough that it doesn’t make a difference at this point._

Closing his eyes, he dropped his sandwich to his plate. It was unbearably difficult to love someone so much. It made him selfish and unwise and even though he knew what he _should_ do—reject Crowley’s advances, go back to being whatever they were before—he also knew what he was going to do.

As long as Crowley was willing, Aziraphale would give him anything he wanted.

Three more years until Crowley would leave him, until they would leave the Dowlings, and eight until none of this might not matter anymore.

**

Two days later Crowley puttered into the cottage with a long sigh. Aziraphale shut his book and had the irrational urge to straighten his own hair. Crowley had seen him in all manners of dishabille and some mussed hair wasn’t going to change that.

When Crowley slumped into the living room, Aziraphale gasped.

Unfortunately Crowley heard him. “What? Have something to say?” he demanded.

Crumpled clothes, bags under his eyes, pale—impossibly pale—Crowley looked more like a demon than Aziraphale thought he ever had before.

“You look terrible,” Aziraphale said without thinking and Crowley growled, ripping off one of his shoes and hurling it at the sofa. Aziraphale knew he wasn’t aiming directly at him or else he would have been rather cross.

“You have no idea,” Crowley grated out, removing his second shoe. 

“Was he very ill?” Aziraphale asked, trying to keep his seat as he warred with his impulse to go to Crowley’s side.

Crowley sank into the chair, his hand coming up to his forehead. “He couldn’t sleep. His coughing kept him awake.”

“You should have let me know,” Aziraphale said. “I could have come to the house and fixed it. Used a little…” He waggled his fingers.

Crowley gritted his teeth, the muscles of his face growing taut before he snapped, “And what? Explained away his miraculous recovery?”

“Illnesses are very temperamental,” Aziraphale said, irrational anger bubbling inside him. He knew it was misplaced but he couldn’t stop it, his earlier frustration with his own weaknesses finding a convenient outlet in the demon in front of him.

“I’m going to take a bath,” Crowley said harshly, shooting to his feet and leaving the room darker than when he had entered.

Aziraphale watched him go as his heart sank. It wouldn’t do to take out his feelings on Crowley. He’d made his peace with the situation, best he could. He had to do better.

Standing up with a heavy sigh, he went back to the master bathroom and knocked on the door, the sound of the water running stopped and he heard a grunt of recognition.

“I’m coming in, Crowley,” Aziraphale warned before easing the door open. Crowley had his knees tucked up to his chest on one side of the tub, looking miserable. He turned his amber eyes to Aziraphale; the expression he saw there forcibly reminded him of their irrevocable differences.

“What?” Crowley snapped, still staring at him.

Perching on the edge of the tub, Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap and did his best to maintain eye contact. “I imagine the last few days have been trying and I should have been more understanding. I’m sorry, my dear.”

The earnest apology made Crowley finally look away. “S’fine,” he mumbled.

“It’s not fine or else you wouldn’t have gotten angry,” Aziraphale pointed out. 

Crowley scrubbed a wet hand over his face, leaving water droplets behind that clung to strands of his hair. 

Pushing away the urge to reach out and tuck it behind his ear, Aziraphale clenched his hand against his thigh before realizing that, regardless of what it meant to either of them, he _could_ reach out and touch.

In what felt like slow motion, Aziraphale lifted his hand and brushed his fingers over Crowley’s forehead, pushing the damp hair back until it didn’t obscure his face. All of a sudden, Aziraphale was transported to three years ago, a snake in the bath, its head pushing into his palm, a low hiss of pleasure.

He tried to pull away, ashamed of the vulnerability in the gesture, but Crowley caught his hand, tangling their fingers together. “I’m alright, angel,” Crowley said softly. “Are you?”

Aziraphale did his best not to look away. “Of course I’m alright,” he answered, trying to sound dismissive.

The lie tasted sour in his mouth. But it seemed to pass by Crowley who squeezed his hand before nodding. “I’ve got to wash my hair so unless you want to watch, best get a move on.”

Without pulling away, Aziraphale said, “I could do it for you.”

The words left him and then echoed in the bathroom. Ridiculous. Of course Crowley wouldn’t want that. 

Crowley released his hand and Aziraphale’s heart raced as he tried to steel himself for rejection.

“I’d like that,” Crowley said instead.

Not believing he’d get this far, Aziraphale moved as if in a daze. While Crowley stretched out in the tub, Aziraphale miracled a cup for water and began rinsing his hair. As he ran his fingers through the wet strands, Crowley let out a little hum of enjoyment that stoked the burning embers in Aziraphale’s belly.

 _Really, washing his hair? Get yourself together_.

He pumped some shampoo into his hand and ran his palm over Crowley’s scalp, scrubbing through the suds with his nails and soothing any tangles.

Crowley’s little hums had drifted into the territory of moans and that did nothing to quell Aziraphale’s swiftly growing interest in the situation. Rinsing away the soap, Aziraphale tried to focus on the task at hand. 

He perhaps ran the warm water over Crowley’s hair a few too many times, drawing the demon’s attention to his distracted state. Their eyes met and one corner of Crowley’s mouth quirked.

Aziraphale blushed. “What?”

“Nothing,” Crowley said but his small smile had become a full-on smirk.

Huffing, Aziraphale rinsed Crowley’s hair once more and traced his fingers down the line of his neck. “All done.”

Though this was something far more intimate than Crowley would have ever allowed before, it helped Aziraphale remember that there was more to this relationship than just the physical. It reminded him that, no matter how Crowley truly felt, Aziraphale loved him in all the ways one could possibly love another. 

He should try to be content with that.

Standing abruptly, before he fell too far into his thoughts, Aziraphale crossed the small room to open the door. “I presume you’ll want the bed tonight.”

Crowley cocked his head, surprise written on his face. “Why wouldn’t we share?”

With a flash of anxiety, Aziraphale nodded. He supposed Crowley was right.

**

Two months later, Warlock was running through the mud, splattering dirt up his pants while Nanny Ashtoreth tottered after, heels discarded as her stockinged feet sunk into the wet earth. “Warlock,” she said, a warning note to her voice. “Come back here.”

Warlock laughed and tore out of the patch of mud, running directly into Francis. “Francis! Nanny’s mad!”

Aziraphale looked down at him with a raised eyebrow. “I won’t defend you from Nanny’s wrath my boy,” he said but he did heft Warlock into his arms.

Crowley came to a stop in front of them and crossed his arms over his chest. “Warlock,” she said again.

Warlock peeked at her from the protection of Francis’s shoulder but the storm both of them expected didn’t come. Nanny put her hand on Warlock’s back and said, “That was a very good moment of chaos, Warlock.”

A complex series of emotions swirled through Aziraphale: love for Crowley, affection for Warlock, distaste for Crowley’s approval of Warlock’s behavior, happiness because they were all together. 

“You should be nicer to Nanny, Warlock,” Aziraphale said, a slight reprimand. He wasn’t quite sure how to counter Crowley’s moment of praise but he felt he had to say something.

Warlock wiggled in Aziraphale’s arms until the angel put him down so that he could go to Lilith’s hip and tug on her skirt. “I love you, Nanny,” Warlock said, a little apologetic but very earnest.

Aziraphale’s heart felt so full that he thought he might cry. 

With poorly disguised shock, Crowley looked down at Warlock and said, “I love you too, Warlock.”

Warlock turned to Francis with an expectant look as Aziraphale tried to figure out the correct response. He knelt down next to the boy and passed his hand through his black hair. “I love you too.”

Warlock’s eyebrows knit together as he pulled himself closer to Crowley’s leg. “What about Nanny?”

Swallowing thickly, Aziraphale looked up at Lilith and said, “Of course I love her.”

His stomach twisted as he met Crowley’s eyes, the demon’s perpetually harsh expression shifting into something hungry.

Aziraphale shivered. He recognized that look.

“Good. Everybody should love Nanny,” Warlock declared.

Standing with a chuckle, trying to affect nonchalance even as his stomach continued to contort, Aziraphale said, “I don’t disagree, lad.”

Pulling Francis against her, Lilith kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear, “I can’t wait to get you alone.”

Aziraphale blushed. At least Crowley enjoyed the physical aspect of their relationship. Romantic love or no.

“Come on, Warlock, let’s get you cleaned up,” Crowley said, reaching down and taking the boy's hand before leading him back to the house.

He gave Aziraphale a parting look, full of promise. Trying to forget what had just happened, Aziraphale returned to the garden. It was a good day for fertilizing and he had a lot to do.

When the sun was threatening to set, he returned to the cottage for a brief shower. It had been a long and uncomfortable day. Dirty jobs to do and too much to think about while doing them.

He shuffled into the kitchen with wet hair and tired muscles, determined to make himself some soup.

Before he even turned on the burner, Crowley’s arms appeared around him, his mouth seeking the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

Aziraphale pulled away, putting some space between them so he could turn on the stove and get his soup heated. With characteristic impatience, Crowley followed him, pulling him by the hips back into his embrace. The demon took off his glasses and put them on the counter before kissing him. Somehow just as hot and desperate as that first time so many weeks ago, Aziraphale melted.

Crowley began to drop kisses down his neck, fingers pulling at the buttons of his pajama shirt. “Did you mean it?” Crowley asked, sounding breathless despite the fact that he was the one undoing Aziraphale.

Aziraphale let out a groan, unable to form a coherent answer.

Dropping to his knees, Crowley pressed his cheek into Aziraphale’s belly. The needy movement of his hands stopping as he breathed deeply.

Heart full of an acute longing that made him need to be closer to Crowley, to touch him, anything... “Please,” Aziraphale said, tugging at Crowley’s shoulders. “I—I need—Can you…”

Crowley looked up at him, face contorting with some unknown emotion before he stood and said, “Of course, angel. Whatever you want.”

They managed to get to the bedroom but it was a near thing, distracted by kisses and wandering hands as they passed through the cottage.

**

For once, Harriet had asked them to stay on for the winter holidays and while they worked less, Aziraphale found Crowley had some unique ideas for how to pass the time.

After one particularly _unique_ experience, Crowley rolled out of the rumpled sheets, leaving Aziraphale behind, breathing hard.

The demon’s interest in their physical relationship hadn’t waned, especially not since they had so much free time together, but the easy displays of affection from the early days—Crowley taking his hand in the garden even when no one was around to watch, the hello and goodbye kisses that Aziraphale had come to crave—had fallen away just as Aziraphale had expected them to.

Trying not to indulge in self pity surrounding the situation he _chose_ , Aziraphale turned onto his side to wait for Crowley to return from the bathroom and something different caught his eye. 

Despite living at the Dowlings for going on four years, he and Crowley had done precious little to make the bedroom more personal. Perhaps it was a manifestation of that early discomfort surrounding the threat of living together.

So when Aziraphale rolled over and saw a picture frame stood on the end table, he paused, taking in the change even as his heart skipped with renewed hope which he immediately pushed away.

Somehow, Crowley had gotten ahold of that photo. From Japan. Just the two of them in all their Francis and Lilith glory and even though Aziraphale could recognize the tightness of his own smile, they looked happy.

When Crowley puttered out of the bathroom, looking especially relaxed, Aziraphale asked, “How’d you get the photo?”

Swinging his head slowly to face Aziraphale, he answered nonchalantly, “Harriet gave it to me a while ago. Seemed a shame to waste it.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale responded, confused and pained by this sudden display of outright affection. He’d thought that part of their relationship was over.

“Do you have a problem with it?” Crowley asked as he turned his focus to his discarded clothes.

“No,” Aziraphale replied abruptly. And then, trying to mimic Crowley’s cool demeanor, he said, “It’s fine.”

“Right,” Crowley said, still looking away after he pulled on his clothes. “I’ve got to go to London for a bit tonight. See you tomorrow.”

Aziraphale watched him go, wishing he could say something to stop him that wouldn’t feel like risking his heart.

**

As Warlock grew older, both Aziraphale and Crowley began to spend more time with him, doing the work they had agreed upon. Finding it easy to lose himself in his time with the antichrist, Aziraphale was grateful for the distraction, happy to work side-by-side with Nanny Ashtoreth but anxious when he and Crowley were alone.

“Four years!” Crowley said, pulling off his heels and setting them by the door. He’d finally listened to Aziraphale’s complaint about leaving his shoes all over the place. 

It had been a long evening celebrating Warlock’s birthday, and they were both glad to be home.

“I honestly thought we’d be seeing more power manifest by now,” Aziraphale commented before settling into the sofa and turning on a record with a wave of his hand.

Crowley grunted noncommittally before peeling off his sunglasses and taking his normal position on the sofa, head in Aziraphale’s lap.

Out of habit, the angel’s hand fell to Crowley’s hair and began to slowly remove the bobby pins. 

“Don’t really have a point of comparison,” Crowley said. “There’s only one antichrist.”

“Fair point.”

Once the final pin was removed, Crowley sighed when Aziraphale played with the ends of his hair. “Love you,” Crowley said in a hoarse voice, like he was scraping the words from the very depths of him, excavating something so buried that it hurt to remove.

The demon had said it 3 times (not that Aziraphale was counting—alright he was counting) since that first drunken time. And whenever he did, it always sounded like that, like Crowley felt so much he _had_ to say the words even if they felt foreign in his mouth. The confession always cracked through Aziraphale’s chest, sure as lightning, and, for a moment, he believed him before he could remind himself that this was all just Crowley, playing another game.

Crowley looked up at him expectantly so Aziraphale said, “That’s very nice of you to say, my dear.”

Mouth twisting, Crowley turned his head and buried his face in Aziraphale’s lap. His shoulders shook for a moment, as if he were cold before he rolled onto his other side, staring at the fire with a carefully blank expression. “Can you put something else on? None of this romantic, crooning nonsense.”

“Billie Holiday is not _nonsense_ , but I’ll turn it off if you wish.”

“I wish,” Crowley snarled.

**

The autumn after Warlock’s fourth birthday was a rainy one. The constant gray taking its toll on Aziraphale’s mood. He tried to remain his usual bright and cheery self but what he wouldn’t give for an honest to goodness day of _sunshine_.

“Franciiiiis,” Warlock whined from the bench. 

“What is it lad,” Francis asked, turning away from the topiary which he had, after nearly four years, finally learned how to prune by hand. 

“Do you think dinosaurs were real?” he asked, kicking his little legs under the seat where they didn’t quite reach the ground.

Not wanting to break the boy’s heart with the truth of things, Francis answered, “That’s what the scientists say. Haven’t you ever seen the skeletons in the museums?”

Warlock perked up. “What museums? There’s bones in the museums? What kinds of bones?”

And _that_ was the sort of question he’d expect from the antichrist. “Why don’t we ask your mum if we can go to the natural history museum? Very educational.”

“But there’s bones,” Warlock tried to confirm.

“Yes, there’s bones,” Francis replied, tired, all he’d wanted to do was fix the topiary and now he was talking about bones. He loved Warlock but he could be quite irritating. He cringed at the thought. What would Heaven do if they found out how much he cared about the antichrist?

Probably nothing worse than if they found out about Crowley.

“Can we go tomorrow? Will Nanny be there?”

“Of course she will be. Why wouldn’t she go?”

“She’s been weird and I’m worried about her,” Warlock declared.

Francis tilted his head. “What's happened?”

“She doesn’t talk about war or mayhem anymore and I miss the stories.”

Pushing down a swell of frustration at how seriously Crowley was taking the assignment to influence the antichrist—he couldn’t give Aziraphale a break? Make it easy?— Francis said, “Sometimes people need a change from things they do all the time. Maybe Nanny wants to tell stories about other things.”

“But it’s stupid. All her stories are sad now. I don’t like sad stories.”

Aziraphale had noticed some strangeness in Crowley’s behavior, a renewed hesitancy that reminded Aziraphale that their relationship wouldn’t last. He had tried to ignore it but here was the literal antichrist, refusing to let him forget. “How about this? I’ll talk to Nanny about it tonight to make sure she’s alright and why don’t you ask her to tell you stories you like?”

Warlock scrunched up his nose reminding Aziraphale acutely of one of his more common expressions as a baby. “Fine.”

Francis fixed Warlock with a toothy smile as he set aside his shears. On to the next task. “Would you like to help me replant the begonias? I’ve got to move the worms so I don’t hurt them.”

“Worms?” Warlock asked, brightening. 

Francis laughed and showed Warlock how to extract the worms from the dirt and move them to a safer place until it got too dark to continue working and he sent Warlock back to the main house with strict instructions to wash his hands.

Crowley was already settled in the living room when Aziraphale returned, staring quietly into the fire.

“Warlock came to talk to me today,” Aziraphale began.

“Isn’t that good? Him seeking out the forces of Heaven and all,” Crowley asked, not looking away from the flames.

“He said he was worried about you.”

Crowley grunted but still didn’t look at him.

Feeling both concerned and confused, Aziraphale dropped to his knees in front of the chair and reached up to cup Crowley’s face in his hand. Brushing a calloused thumb over Crowley’s cheek, Aziraphale asked, “ _Are_ you alright? Is there anything I can do?”

Reaching up to take his hand, Crowley softened before pulling it away from his face and letting it settle in his lap. “Of course I’m fine, why would you think otherwise?”

“Warlock said you’ve been sad.”

Crowley scoffed. “He’s four years old. He has no idea what’s going on.”

“Well, alright. He said he wanted to hear more stories about war, so I guess we’re both doing something right.”

Crowley grunted in acknowledgment and they didn’t speak for the rest of the night.

**

“I was thinking we could spend Christmas together,” Aziraphale said and Crowley turned his attention from his “Star Trek” to look at him blankly.

“I don’t celebrate Christmas. Obviously,” Crowley said like he was an idiot.

“I know that,” Aziraphale retorted primly. “I’m merely saying I’d like to stay here for the holiday break. Together. When the Dowlings go to America.”

It was a risk and Aziraphale knew it. He couldn’t help but miss the time he had with Crowley the previous year and hoped, if they stayed behind in the cottage, that he could recreate that closeness.

Looking at Aziraphale, expression shifting from it’s eerie blankness into something pained, Crowley kept silent for a moment and Aziraphale watched his throat move as he swallowed. “As much as I’d like that I’m sure, head office has gotten used to me putting in my hours during December. Can’t disappoint.”

“Ah, makes sense,” Aziraphale said, the acute sting of rejection marring his words. “Perhaps I should do the same. Arouse less suspicion and all.”

Crowley turned off the TV and crawled into his lap before he could say anything else, kissing him hungrily and making those little noises that made Aziraphale feel drunk.

**

After a very successful spring and summer with Warlock—now that he could understand more difficult theological concepts, the influencing was going _quite_ well—his fifth birthday came with less fanfare than normal as Harriet had decided to take him on a weekend trip to France to celebrate. While Aziraphale thought the culture was probably lost on a five year old, he was fine with a little break from the antichrist.

“This is boring,” Crowley complained from the dining room table. “There’s nothing to do.”

“If you’re so bored, perhaps you could join me in trying to make these ravioli,” Aziraphale said, not giving Crowley the dignity of looking at him. Really, he could be such a child.

Appearing at his side, Crowley looked down at the pasta dough Aziraphale was struggling with. “Why don’t you use a pasta maker?”

“I am _trying_ to do this by hand,” Aziraphale said, refusing to let frustration seep into his voice. 

“What can I do to help?” Crowley asked instead of making the smart comment Aziraphale could practically feel was on the tip of his tongue.

“Make the filling,” Aziraphale said, nodding toward the bowl filled with cheese and herbs. “And once that’s done boil water? Please?”

Crowley grunted in acknowledgment and got to work. In the silence of the kitchen, both working quietly at their respective tasks, Aziraphale realized that they were friends, truly. This is what friends did, stand side by side and work together. It was more than Aziraphale had ever thought possible during the six thousand years of their acquaintance. But Aziraphale had never been so certain that he loved Crowley and how badly he wanted their relationship to mean for Crowley what it meant for him. Not friends then. Not with how he felt.

Struck by the anxiety of what could happen when they finally left the Dowlings—Crowley leaving, Heaven finding out and reprimanding him, the world ending—he focused on the noodles in his hands and tried to be happy with what he had.

**

Warlock was wailing, clutching his own arm, and Aziraphale had precisely no idea what to do.

The child had taken a fall from a low tree when Aziraphale hadn’t been looking. His first impulse was to heal the injury but Aziraphale stopped himself. Who knew what angelic powers would do to the antichrist. Inspecting his arm, Aziraphale realized with mounting dread that the limb was broken. After setting it with a rather pathetic makeshift sling from his (miraculously) too large handkerchief, Aziraphale pulled Warlock into his arms, careful not to jostle him too much. 

“Come on Warlock, let me take you back to the house.”

Upon finding Nanny in Warlock’s playroom, Aziraphale uttered a sigh of relief. “Warlock’s hurt,” he said over Warlock’s crying in his arms.

“What happened?” Crowley asked, forgetting his Nanny Ashtoreth voice and surprising both of them.

“Erm, I mean,” Crowley stuttered and Aziraphale spoke over him.

“The lad fell out of the apple tree. We should get him to A&E.”

They locked eyes over the antichrist’s head and Aziraphale tried to communicate _I can’t just heal him anymore_ though he wasn’t sure the message got through since he was fairly certain Crowley was trying to communicate something along the lines of _You are the greatest idiot of all time._

Crowley drove them in the family car, not even asking anyone permission to take it. Not that there was anyone to ask. Harriet and Tad where both on business trips and perhaps they could have asked Pearson but that would have been a waste of time.

Singing a low soothing song, Aziraphale clutched Warlock on his lap as the boy continued to snuffle. Aziraphale had broken a bone once, a very long time ago. If he recalled correctly, the pain had been terrible and he thought Warlock was handling it very well for a five year old.

“You’re doing wonderfully, Warlock. I’m sorry you’re hurt.”

After an x-ray, some pills for the pain, and a quick casting while Aziraphale clutched Warlock’s free hand, whispering words of love and support the whole time, they were sent back off with instructions to keep it elevated for a few days and to come back in six weeks.

“You’re telling Harriet,” Crowley said once they returned to the cottage after getting Warlock to sleep.

“Me? You’re the nanny!” Aziraphale protested.

“Yes but you were the one watching him when it happened.”

“Honestly, I’m surprised he hasn’t hurt himself before given _your_ usual lack of attentiveness.”

“Excuse me, I’m very attentive!” Crowley said, raising his voice.

“You’d lose your head if it wasn’t attached to your shoulders!”

At some point their teasing argument had become truly heated and Aziraphale looked away, cheeks turning red.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s been a very stressful evening and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” Aziraphale gave him a tired smile. “It’s days like these that make me look forward to leaving this place.”

It was a lie and Aziraphale knew it. Leaving was exactly what he dreaded most days, and stressful moments like this made him realize how much, because even they seemed better than the dread of this being over. What would his life look like after he left this place? He barely felt safe being together with Crowley _here_. He doubted he would outside of the guise of influencing the antichrist. But he wanted it desperately. More than anything.

Slipping his hand away, Crowley laughed and for some reason the noise struck Aziraphale as cruel and not at all the joyful laugh he come to covet over the last two years. “I suppose you could put it that way,” the demon said before rising to his feet. “Are you coming to bed?”

“Erm, no,” Aziraphale answered, mind still whirling with anxiety. “I think I’ll stay up and read.”

Crowley looked down at him and then nodded as if something had just slid into place, an old puzzle being solved. “Right.”

**

Time continued to pass—as it was wont to do—and Aziraphale found himself struggling with the burden of his work as the gardener, his opportunities to influence Warlock, and his relationship with Crowley, who had continued to pull away from him just as Aziraphale had known he would.

Things were so tenuous. Something felt like it had to break.

Warlock’s sixth birthday had come and gone faster than Aziraphale could fathom. He’d spent the last three years in denial that the day would ever come when he needed to leave the Dowlings, leave Warlock, leave Crowley. It was evidence that the apocalypse truly was nigh and it terrified him.

Could he betray Crowley? Fight for heaven? Leave Warlock to become the fall of mankind?

Slowly but surely, just as Aziraphale knew it would, Crowley’s interest in him had dwindled into nothingness. They rarely slept in the same bed and whenever Crowley kissed him it was with a kind of desperation that Aziraphale didn’t understand. Sometimes angry and painful, Crowley had dispatched with any of the tenderness that Aziraphale remembered so fondly. Gone were the soft moments that Aziraphale had treasured, replaced by silence and rough kisses that made Aziraphale ache.

Consequently, Aziraphale had started staying later in the garden, trying his best to avoid Crowley, the way his eyes tracked him throughout the living room, clearly thinking hard about something that he didn’t feel like sharing.

The Dowlings were at a friend’s house and had toted Warlock along to play with the other children that would be there. Which unfortunately meant Crowley had the day off, staying in the cottage and relaxing in that aggressively lounging way of his. Avoiding the cottage like the plague, Aziraphale weeded all seven of the flowerbeds and checked on the starters in the greenhouse in an effort to be out long into the evening. When the sun had well and truly set, he returned to the cottage, hoping Crowley would be asleep.

Realizing the lights in the living room were still on, Aziraphale’s heart sank as he approached the cottage. He lingered in the mud room shower but it made no difference, Crowley was still perched in his chair, nails picking at the loose threads of the fabric before Aziraphale walked in and those floodlight eyes snapped to his.

“Staying out awfully late, Francis.”

Aziraphale hovered in the doorway, fear trickling down his spine. It was happening wasn’t it.

_It’s been fun but maybe we should stop with this charade._

_I thought I loved you but I was wrong._

“Why are you calling me Francis?” he asked even as his mind slowed with cold dread.

“Well, since you can’t stand to be around me these days, I thought perhaps you’d prefer if I didn’t call you by your real name.”

“Why are you acting like this?” Aziraphale said, fear making him numb. “If you have something to say then say it.”

Crowley surged to his feet, face tight with anger. “Why don’t you end it, Aziraphale? You clearly don’t want this anymore. Are you bored? Did you finally decide that entertaining a demon’s feelings weren’t worth it? Too risky?” He affected Aziraphale’s voice and continued, “ _I can’t be caught fraternizing. What would Heaven do?_ Is that it?”

Aziraphale was thrown off by Crowley’s words. What was he on about? “I’m not the one bored. _You’re_ bored. You always get bored.”

“Why would I get bored?” Crowley’s cold anger turned into fury. This Aziraphale was accustomed to. Crowley railing and ranting. “I’ve been in love with you for two thousand years! If I was going to get _bored_ and give up on you, I would have done it ages ago.”

Aziraphale’s mouth dropped open. 

_Was Crowley serious? That was…_

“What—what do you mean? T—two thousand years?” he stammered, unable to keep up.

Crowley grit his teeth. “Yes two thousand years, you blithering _idiot_. Don’t act like you didn’t know. Mister 'Fraternizing'-'Too Fast'-'Different Feelings,'” he spat.

Aziraphale shook his head. It _was_ too fast. What did—How—?

“I—I _didn’t_ know,” he protested, still not knowing, not _understanding,_ head spinning as his own words were spit back at him, each one a sharp nail, a doubt that had tormented _him_ —not Crowley.

“What in bloody Satan’s name did you think was happening?” Crowley demanded, still raging as Aziraphale’s thoughts continued to stop and start.

Feeling very small and very foolish as the last five years played through his mind in a very different light, Aziraphale looked at his feet, his bare toes pale against the wooden floors of the cottage. 

What _had_ he thought? For the life of him, nothing made sense.

He did his best to explain, not sure what he was going to say until he said it. “Well—I thought you were just trying to find something to entertain yourself while you were here. That maybe you were caught up in this...charade. I think we both have been and I know I’m not very exciting to you so it didn’t seem likely you’d actually, er, mean what you said.”

“Are you—” Crowley broke off and let out a disbelieving groan. “You thought this was a passing fancy? You think I would risk the wrath of _Hell_ just to shag you a couple of times?”

“More than _a couple_ _of times_ ,” Aziraphale grumbled. It was a ridiculous thing to say given the circumstances, but his brain was decidedly mum. Too busy trying to understand what on Earth was happening.

Crowley took a final step towards him and held him in place, hands on his arms. “What do I have to say to make you believe me? That I love you? I’m pretty sure I’ve said that. I can say it again if that’ll do.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No. I think it’s me—I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” Crowley said decisively and overwhelming relief or no, Aziraphale wasn’t going to let that remark pass without a significant glare.

“How about this?” Crowley asked, ignoring his sour look. “I want to kiss you. And I’d like to kiss you whenever I want for as long as you’ll let me.”

Still struggling to find his footing, Aziraphale _did_ let Crowley kiss him, a little too shocked to really kiss him back as the painful sting of the last three years gave way to a happiness that Aziraphale had been certain he’d never feel in Crowley’s presence. Crowley loved him, truly. It was hard to fathom. _2000 years._

“That was very romantic,” Aziraphale managed to say, fighting a smile when Crowley pulled away.

The demon rolled his eyes and said, “I hate you.”

“I think I’ve just heard that you _love_ me and have for quite some time so...forgive me if I doubt that.”

“You’re never going to let me live this down,” Crowley said as Aziraphale pulled him into an embrace.

Just holding him and thankful for a way to hide the growing tears in his eyes, Aziraphale said, “You’re absolutely right. You old romantic.”

Crowley groaned but hugged him back, letting Aziraphale tuck his nose against his neck. He breathed in the scent of lavender and for the first time in a long time, it brought him joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i rewrote this chapter at least 5 times. perhaps because it ripped my heart out to write.
> 
> PS i know fanon is generally that crowley fell in love with aziraphale on the wall outside of eden but i have a different thing in mind that shall be discussed later


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed by [ wingittofreedom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wingittofreedom/pseuds/WingittoFreedom)  
> Cw in end notes

Aziraphale stirred, momentarily confused by how relaxed his body felt. He’d been strung so tightly for the last six years that he couldn’t remember the last time he felt like this. 

Crowley _loved_ him. Truly. By all accounts as much as Aziraphale loved him. It was…

It was _wonderful_.

“I have to go to work,” his pillow said, sounding reluctant.

Waking for real, Aziraphale sat up and stretched, eyes opening and once more struck by the sight of Crowley, in his bed, _loving_ him.

He smiled and he knew he looked quite the fool, but he didn’t care. He was happy and he was going to let himself be happy.

Leaning across the small expanse between them, Aziraphale brushed a chaste kiss over Crowley’s lips. Eyes crinkling at the corners, somehow joyful without even smiling, Crowley pushed Aziraphale’s hair back from his face. “I really do have to go. Don’t want to be late.”

Grumbling, Aziraphale flopped back on the pillows. 

With that, Crowley disappeared into the bathroom and returned lightning quick, dressed as Nanny and looking utterly beautiful in the morning light. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed and looking down at Aziraphale, Crowley said, “I was thinking I could ask Harriet for the night off. We could go to the city. Get dinner.”

Aziraphale hummed. That sounded lovely. It had been so long since he’d had a proper dinner.

“I forgot how you looked at the promise of a good meal,” Crowley said, his voice clipped but teasing.

Aziraphale scowled at him. “You’re the one who offered.”

Crowley laughed quietly and then kissed him again, lingering and soft and altogether not what Aziraphale had become accustomed to over the last three years. His hand came up to cup Crowley’s jaw, trying to deepen the kiss but Crowley pulled away. 

“Gotta go, angel.”

Perhaps Aziraphale whimpered when Crowley stood and walked to the door but he would never admit it.

Crowley paused in the doorway and looked back at him. “I do love you,” he said, uncovered eyes flickering for a moment like he was searching for something.

Aziraphale grinned as his heart lurched with joy and not pain, and he put his hand over it. _“Thank you,”_ he said and the words were hardly enough to convey his gratitude.

Crowley’s nostrils flared before he put on his sunglasses, expression once more obscured and unintelligible behind the lenses. “See you tonight, Aziraphale.”

“Tonight,” Aziraphale confirmed, overjoyed that he had something to look forward to.

**

Because Aziraphale had spent the better part of the last month trying to avoid the cottage, he was so far ahead in his typical work that he found himself at loose ends by noon. Roses were pruned—and looking very good if he had anything to say about it—topiary, immaculate. Even the tomatoes in the greenhouse were flourishing. Truly a miracle. And not even the literal kind.

Satisfied and very happy indeed, Aziraphale returned to the cottage thinking on a light lunch and perhaps some reading. Little strains of Frank O’Hara were playing through his mind. A vestige of his old obsessions. The way he associated it with Crowley.

_Early morning, before the mist rolls / in from the sea; and out there everything is turbulent and / green_

He walked into the house, still smiling, seemingly unable to stop.

Whistling on his way into the kitchen, his eyes fell to the table and he stopped, music dying in his mouth as he saw the letter.

He recognized that paper, that heavenly script.

 _Addressed to the Principality Aziraphale_ it said in looping letters.

The warmth inside him drained into ice, heavy in his stomach as he tore open the envelope with fumbling fingers.

Was it a reprimand? Did Heaven know about Crowley? Were they finally paying attention?

_You are hereby summoned to attend the trial of the Guardian Angel Malak who stands accused of breaking the third law of the Nephilim sanctions._

_Sincerely,_

_The Arch Council_

Aziraphale dropped the letter on the table like a burning thing, heart hammering in his chest. It was fine. They were fine. 

His hand met the table as he leaned forward, trying to catch his breath while the reality of his situation began to make itself known.

What if it _had_ been a summons for him? Everything in the cottage was evidence of his life with Crowley, evidence of his association with a demon. He looked at the rose on the table and closed his eyes, reminding himself that he had made his choice. Forcing his roiling emotion away, he looked back at the letter.

The Nephilim Sanctions? No one had broken those laws for years.

Changing back into his normal body—strange, it didn’t feel quite so normal anymore—he readied himself for being recalled. He touched the seal at the bottom of the letter and was immediately pulled into a stream of light.

Stepping up to Heaven’s reception desk, he cleared his throat to draw the attention of the attendant. “I’m here for jury duty,” Aziraphale said unable to shake his nerves.

The attendant looked up at him and then shook their head. “Not jury duty. This is an all call.”

They snapped their fingers and Aziraphale was transported to a Heavenly courtroom. He hadn’t been inside one for centuries. Slowly, more and more of the Host appeared around him, the courtroom expanding to accommodate thousands of angel feet. Feeling surrounded and increasingly anxious, Aziraphale tried to remember to breathe. This was all happening so fast—and it was far too easy to imagine that he was the one awaiting trial.

The door to the courtroom slammed open and the Arch Council marched in, Uriel pushing in a young looking angel with a wide mouth and hooked nose. Something about the set of his jaw reminded Aziraphale of Crowley. 

“Thank you for attending today,” Gabriel said, clapping his hands and affecting a smile. 

A murmur passed through the crowd.

“Uriel,” he said in that awful booming voice. “What are the charges?”

“The Guardian Malak stands accused of laying with a human.”

The murmur turned into a gasp.

Gabriel’s face contorted with disgust, the most honest emotion Aziraphale had ever seen from him. “How do you plead, Malak?”

“I doesn’t matter what I plead. Just cast me out already,” Malak hissed, lip curling in disdain. Aziraphale’s stomach twisted. He really did remind Aziraphale of Crowley. 

Gabriel’s smile turned brittle. “The punishment for lying with a human isn’t Falling.”

“You will burn,” Michael announced. She sounded...sad.

Before Aziraphale could process her words, the archangels stepped back, leaving Malak the center of an empty circle.

Then it was fire crawling through the white marble floor, the hairs on the back of Aziraphale’s neck standing up in defense— _hellfire_ —golden flames consuming and twisting and burning through Malak’s body and then it wasn’t Malak it was Crowley burning but no, that wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be—

A roaring scream. Silence.

Aziraphale dug his fingernails into his palm and tried not to cry out in protest.

Gabriel turned to the Host, all faux sadness and pity. “Sorry we had to call you here. It’s a sad day when one of our ranks breaks angelic law. But we find it best, when things like this happen, to set an example.”

Michael stepped forward. Her calm and collected demeanor grating against Aziraphale’s nerves. “You may return to your posts.”

And then Aziraphale was back in the kitchen. He didn’t remember going to the bedroom but he must have because he was suddenly on the bed, trying his best to breathe through clutching grief.

They had _burned_ him. With only a pathetic mockery of trial, Malak was condemned and destroyed. 

After years of dismissing the consequences, Aziraphale had finally _seen_ it. What could happen if Heaven knew about his relationship with Crowley. What Heaven would do to him if they found out. What Heaven—or Hell—would do to _Crowley_.

It wasn’t some vague, bureaucratic image of a punishment they could both survive. It was _destruction_. 

Being with Crowley—loving him—was too risky.

“Aziraphale?”

Tears soaking the pillow under his cheek, Aziraphale shook his head, unable to speak. 

_What if I had to exist in a world without you?_

“Aziraphale what—” Crowley asked again and Aziraphale could only shake his head harder.

The bed dipped behind him, an arm coming around his ribs in a loose embrace. “What happened?” Crowley murmured behind him, less question more concern as Aziraphale shuddered in his embrace.

“It’s all right, angel. Whatever happened, you’re here now,” Crowley said, a quiet breath on his neck.

Time passed—enough for the moon to rise, casting the room in a blue glow—and eventually the wracking sobs subsided, grief giving way to numbness. 

“Crowley?” he asked tentatively. Crowley’s thumb froze where it was rubbing soothing circles on his wrist before he began to withdraw his arm.

Aziraphale clutched at it, the irrational fear of Crowley leaving—being gone forever—overtaking him as he rolled over to face the demon.

Crowley’s normal pallor was almost ghostly in the moonlight, hair so dark it looked black, and his uncovered eyes held an emotion that Aziraphale recognized as the same distress rattling inside him, like looking into a warped mirror.

“What happened?” Crowley asked in the quiet between them.

“I was summoned. To Heaven.”

Crowley sucked in a sharp breath but let Aziraphale continue.

“They summoned all of us. The entire Host. A guardian angel had broken a law and they wanted to make an example of him.”

“Did they make him fall?” Crowley asked, even quieter than before. 

Aziraphale shook his head, throat closing. “They—they burned him.”

“What?” Crowley said, suddenly far too loud and Aziraphale shrank away.

“No, I’m sorry. It’s—I can’t believe they’d just destroy one of their own.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said and his voice shook.

Crowley continued to rub soothing circles into his back, but Aziraphale’s skin was crawling and wouldn’t stop.

Unable to hold in the words, Aziraphale asked, “What if they do that to us? To you?”

“Hellfire can’t hurt me. You know that.”

“But what about holy water?” Aziraphale retorted angrily and Crowley’s eyes widened at his tone. Aziraphale deflated. “I’m sorry. It’s just...I’m scared, Crowley.” 

_This is what happens when you take what you want_.

He shook off the thought. This wasn’t about him. This was about Crowley. Keeping Crowley safe.

Crowley searched his face, mouth settling into a thin line.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you,” Crowley said, putting words to the feeling that Aziraphale had yet to understand.

Aziraphale is silent, wanting to protest but not sure if he could. He _should_ leave. Protect Crowley. But some selfish part of him refused to let go. They could face this together couldn’t they? Would Crowley want to face this together?

Aziraphale tried to explain himself but found that he couldn’t. He had grown to accustomed to pushing down his words, hiding them where Crowley couldn’t see, that now, they failed him entirely.. 

“Fine. Whatever you want,” Crowley said, mouth twisting as he stood up and crossed to the wardrobe.

His nonchalance lit something in Aziraphale and then he was angry, so angry he felt his vision tunnel. How _dare_ Crowley be so unfeeling? Didn’t he know…? “What do _you_ want?” Aziraphale demanded.

Crowley yanked a hanger from the wardrobe and whirled on him. “You know what I want. You just don’t care.”

“Of course I care—” Aziraphale protested but Crowley wouldn’t let him get the words out.

“Listen to yourself. I knew you were selfish but I never knew you were a liar.”

_What…?_

Aziraphale sucked in a breath through his teeth. What was Crowley saying? He felt as if he were outside of his body, watching everything slide out of his control when only moments before he had thought they were on the same page. He needed to calm down. He needed to be rational about this.

Stuffing his clothes into an overnight bag, Crowley kept his head down as he said, “I’m staying at the house tonight. Do whatever you like.”

As Crowley opened the door, Aziraphale rushed to his side, clutching at Crowley’s arm. Crowley couldn’t just _leave_.

 _Isn’t that hypocritical, Aziraphale_?

Crowley jerked away when Aziraphale tried to touch him. Hands falling to his sides in resignation, Aziraphale asked, “Please, we can still be friends right? Stay in contact? Like before?” 

Crowley turned to him with a look so poisonous that Aziraphale stepped back. He’d seen that look before but never directed at _him_.

“We’re not friends. We never were.”

And with that, the door slammed shut and Crowley was gone. 

The next day, when Crowley didn’t come back, Aziraphale packed his things before taking his leave of Harriet. It was a few weeks earlier than they had planned to leave but Harriet waved off his apologies, expressing concern about Nanny's ill mother, the excuse Crowley had provided the night before so he could _run away_. 

Aziraphale hoped beyond hope that he would hear from Crowley, telling himself that this would all blow over like all their fights did. He truly hoped so. Crowley had loved him for two thousand years. It _couldn’t_ be over. 

**

_October 19 2014_

Dear Crowley,

I can’t stop thinking about you. I’m sorry things ended the way they did. I wish you’d answer my calls. There are so many things I want to say.

Quite a lot has happened since we left the Dowlings. I’ve gotten a new order of several misprinted Bibles that I think you’d love. Very interesting as always.

Yours,

Aziraphale

**

To: gardening.angel@yahoo.com; nanny.ashtoreth@gmail.com

From: hdowling@jhconsulting.net

_October 23rd, 2014 12:16 PM_

Dear Francis and Lilith,

According to all reports, Warlock is doing very well in school. His teacher says that sometimes he pulls pranks on the other students but he always apologizes and takes his punishment with good grace. You were always so good at wrangling his tantrums.

I’ve attached a scan of a picture he drew in school. A pretty good likeness of the two of you, don’t you think?

Warlock’s asked after you a few times and I was hoping you might come visit for the winter holidays? We’ll be in England and he misses you.

Let me know what you think. I’d also like to see you and hear about your new positions.

Love,

Harriet

**

To: hdowling@jhconsulting.net

From: gardening.angel@yahoo.com

_November 1, 2016 9:51 PM_

Dear Harriet,

It was lovely to hear from you. I’m glad Warlock is doing well in school. Quite the little talent he has there.

Lilith and I also miss you and Warlock, but I’m not sure if Lilith’s new employers will be giving her a break for the holidays. I’ll ask her as I think we would both love to visit!

Best,

Francis

**

_Hi Crowley, erm, I haven’t heard from you so I don’t know if you check your email or if you’ve been getting my letters but I thought I’d call because Harriet wants us to visit in December. I think it’s a good opportunity to maintain our influence. Just a day trip. I’ll be going but I think it's best if we both attend._

_I’ll send the details when I have them. Hope you’re well._

**

To: gardening.angel@yahoo.com

From: ajcrowley@gmail.com

I’ll meet you at the Dowlings on the agreed upon date.

_Sent from my iphone_

**

_December 26th 2014_

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said with a sharp nod, his hair back up in it’s Nanny Ashtoreth fashion. Aziraphale wondered if he’d kept up her appearance in his off hours or if he was back in his skinny jeans and too-tight shirts. 

“Crowley,” he said briskly. “Have you gotten my letters? I haven’t heard from—”

“We’re burning daylight,” Crowley interrupted, gesturing down the driveway.

“Right,” Aziraphale replied as fell into step beside the demon. “Did you buy anything for Warlock?”

“Of course I did,” Crowley snapped, a cruel bent to his voice.

“Ah,” Aziraphale said before adjusting his cap on his head. It was going to be a long day.

**

To: hdowling@jhconsulting.net

From: gardening.angel@yahoo.com

_January 3, 2015 4:36 AM_

Harriet,

Thanks so much for having us for Christmas. Lilith and I don’t have much family besides each other and it was lovely to be so welcome among yours.

Though I have to say Mr. Dowling’s mother is quite the character.

Hoping to see you soon. We’d love to hear from you and Warlock.

Best,

Francis

**

To: gardening.angel@yahoo.com

From: hdowling@jhconsulting.net

_January 4, 2015 8:00 PM_

Francis,

We loved having you! Warlock was so excited you could make it and as always, you and Nanny really livened up the place.

Who knew Lilith was so good at charades?

Love,

Harriet

PS Barbara is SUCH a bore. But don’t tell Thaddeus I said so ;)

**

To: gardening.angel@yahoo.com

From: hdowling@jhconsulting.net

_January 16, 2016 12:01 PM_

Dear Francis,

Sorry we haven’t been in touch as much but I’m so happy you came to visit for Christmas again. Warlock asked if you had a way to keep in contact with him. He said he had some things he wanted your advice on?

Not to be too much of a helicopter but if he does reach out, could you let me know what its about? He’s been quiet lately and I’m a little worried. 

Love,

Harriet

**

A: Crowley—this is Aziraphale. I have purchased a mobile phone because Warlock has requested a way to contact us regularly and I will be sending Harriet the contact information! Can I give her yours as well?! It’s probably best to maintain our dual influence if interactions are to continue!

Yours,

Aziraphale

C: Sure. You know the number.

C: You don’t have to sign your text messages.

A: Hello Crowley! Would you like to come over for tea sometime? We haven’t chatted in quite a while. I have some things I’d like to say.

_Read 2:17 AM_

**

To: hdowling@jhconsulting.net

From: gardening.angel@yahoo.com

_February 2, 2016 3:19 PM_

Harriet—

Of course you can have our phone numbers. Lilith finally convinced me to get one of those new mobiles with the touch screens and while I’m not the best at this “texting,” see my number below. You can share that with Warlock. I’ve also included Lilith’s in case there’s anything she can help Warlock with. 

I’ll keep you updated if there’s anything you should know. I’m sure it’s just normal childhood troubles.

Best,

Francis

**

W: Mom gave me your number

W: Its warlock

F: Your mom told me you’d message me. Is everything all right?

W: There’s this girl in my class

F: That you have romantic inclinations towards?

W: No but I think she likes me

W: There’s also a boy

W: How did you know Nanny liked you?

F: I didn’t. She had to tell me. Do you want advice?

W: Yes.

F: Talk to him. It’s better to know than hurt yourself wondering

W: I’m gonna text nanny

**

To: gardening.angel@yahoo.com; nanny.ashtoreth@gmail.com

From: hdowling@jhconsulting.net

_November 20, 2016 8:04 AM_

Francis and Lilith,

We’re going to America for Christmas this year and I’m sad you won’t be able to join us. I guess I’d started to think of you visiting over the holidays as sort of a tradition now that you aren’t living with us :) I sent some gifts Warlock picked out in the mail (nothing too fancy!). Warlock is happy to be visiting his cousins but he misses you too.

Thanks,

Harriet

**

Dear Crowley,

Merry Christmas! 

Yes, I know you don’t celebrate. But I saw this in the shop and had to buy it for you. I don’t know if you still like Fall Out Boy but the clerk informed me this was their newest album. I haven’t listened to it so you’ll have to let me know if it meets muster!

I miss you.

Love,

Aziraphale

**

To: gardening.angel@yahoo.com; nanny.ashtoreth@gmail.com

From: hdowling@jhconsulting.net

_August 3, 2017 1:06 PM_

Francis and Lilith—

I’ve attached some photos of Warlock! Can you believe he’s 9 years old? It’s strange to think you left us 3 years ago. It hardly feels that long!

Thank you for sending gifts for his birthday even though I wish you could have come in person. 

Thanks,

Harriet

**

W: whats with this terrarium

F: I thought you might want to keep a snake. You always liked snakes when you were little. You tried to play with them in the garden.

W: Where am I supposed to get a snake?

F: Ask your parents.

**

A: Warlock’s 11th birthday is coming. Can we meet and discuss details? The park?

C: I’ll be there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: an angel is burned alive


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end is nigh!  
> i lovingly refer to this chapter as canon divergent apocalypse speed-run. we've all read the book or seen the show so no need to rehash it too much  
> beta'ed by [ wingittofreedom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wingittofreedom/pseuds/WingittoFreedom)

Crowley had cut his hair. 

That’s the first thing Aziraphale notices—that at some point between 2016 and now, Crowley had cut his hair.

Aziraphale gapes at him from the park bench and then has the presence of mind to look away.

“What?” Crowley demands, perching as far away as he possibly can on the small park bench.

“It’s just...your hair,” Aziraphale replies—pathetically, he realizes.

“Yeah, cut it. Problem?” Crowley asks, not looking at him, each word sharp as glass.

“No. No problem. Looks good. You always look good,” Aziraphale hurries to say, regretting it when Crowley’s mouth twists down.

“If that’s enough pleasantries for you, let’s discuss the upcoming event.”

Aziraphale nods.

“We need to be there,” Crowley announces. “For the hellhound.”

**

“No hellhound,” Crowley breathes after he closes the car door.

“Wrong boy,” Aziraphale replies. Oh, dear, this is a lot to take in. As his mind reels, the fear of the misplaced antichrist mingles with relief that it _isn’t_ Warlock, and he looks at Crowley for answers, but for once, Crowley is out of ideas.

**

And then it’s the Apocalypse. 

It’s arrival makes Aziraphale realize how much time he’d spent dismissing it as only an idea. A potential threat. And he starts to feel like he can’t trust this Crowley who keeps putting his own interests above humanity (really, Alpha Centauri?) and who has spent the better part of five years dismissing Aziraphale. 

He tries to be a good angel, tries to convince Heaven that this isn’t the way. But it turns out Heaven is as useless as he always thought they were and that’s when he starts to feel truly alone.

**

Discorporating is just as unpleasant as Aziraphale always expected it would be and when he finally tracks down Crowley—drunk and nearly weeping in a pub, being incredibly maudlin as Crowley is wont to do—Aziraphale has to remind himself to focus on the situation at hand because Crowley said _best friend_. And the hope of fixing whatever is broken between them is almost more than Aziraphale can handle with the threat of the Apocalypse pressing down, confusing him and weaving through everything that happens after.

And then the world _doesn’t_ end—which is surprising and rather too much to think about. But his bookshop does burn down which is nearly as bad—all right, yes, it's not as bad but it did make Aziraphale feel very put out—and when Crowley invites him to come to his apartment just to have somewhere to stay, he simply says yes.

As they climb onto the bus together, world weary and alone, he starts to think on all the things that Crowley said—best friends, our side, _run away together._ Maybe this is the place where they finally come together.

**

“I’ve never been here before,” Aziraphale says when he walks into Crowley’s apartment. “Very, erm, nice.”

“Don’t lie, you think it’s a nightmare. I can tell by that pinched look you’ve got.”

“Well forgive me if I prefer some creature comforts,” Aziraphale says, puffing out his chest in indignation. This starkness of this place reminds him of the awful cleanliness of Heaven and he has no idea why Crowley would want that.

Crowley grunts and walks out of the foyer without saying anything so Aziraphale follows after, finding him in the kitchen rummaging through cupboards and pulling out an obscene amount of alcohol. “What do you want to drink? I’ve got tea, alcohol and...more alcohol.”

“Alcohol, please.”

“Preference?”

“Whatever you’re having.”

“Whiskey it is,” Crowley says, snagging a full bottle from the pile of liquor on the counter. He tosses it to Aziraphale and then grabs another, ripping off the lid and throwing back a few swallows.

“I need to shower. Do you need anything?”

There it is again. The kindness. The small, everyday, almost unnoticeable kind that Aziraphale has always thought the sole province of angels and yet, here he is, reminded of all the reasons why Crowley is _different._ All the reasons Aziraphale loves him. 

“No, I, er, I’ll figure myself out. Living room?” Aziraphale asks, pointing in the direction he thought would be most likely.

“Got it in one. Don’t break anything.”

Aziraphale wanders into the living room, another stark, bloodless room that makes his skin crawl. Why does Crowley live like this?

He opens his own bottle of whiskey and takes a swallow, relishing the way it settles his jangling nerves. They really need to talk. But where to begin? 

_“Well,” he hears himself say over the smell of brimstone, “There was a garden, and…”_

Far too soon—not nearly enough time for Aziraphale to figure out what in Heaven’s name he’s going to _say_ —Crowley saunters out of the bathroom, black silk pajama pants reminding Aziraphale of another black article of clothing that he has spent too long— _years_ now—trying not to think of.

“Need the shower?” Crowley asks, whiskey bottle still in hand, liquid half gone.

“No, erm, I’m fine. Turns out that spontaneously recorporating makes you feel very clean, all those new atoms, you see,” Aziraphale says, hearing the words that were coming out of his mouth and not knowing how to stop them. He needs to talk about other things. He can’t let this get away from him.

“Ah,” Crowley says, his face going taut, eyes hidden behind the reflective lenses of his glasses. 

During the ensuing pause Aziraphale wonders if he showered in them.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale finally manages. “I think you had a bit of a rougher go of it than me.”

“What does that mean?” Crowley asks harshly and Aziraphale has to force himself not to shrink. He’s been shrinking around Crowley ever since they’d come together a week ago if only to not break the tentative truce between them. He refuses to shrink any longer.

“I do _not_ appreciate your tone, Anthony,” Aziraphale says before slamming back another shot —and then some—from the bottle. “The world did _not_ end and we are both alive. Stop letting your _feelings_ get in the way.”

Crowley sneers, not put off by his words. “You would say that, wouldn’t you. Bastard.”

Aziraphale sucks in a breath, ready to fight back. He made his mistakes but he wasn’t the only one. Crowley _left_. 

Instead, he closes his eyes and forcefully calms down. “We will discuss that comment later,” he says quietly, satisfied by the way Crowley’s jaw clicks shut. “For now, we have a prophecy to decipher and two bottles of whiskey to drink so I need you to trust me and put aside your _issues_ so we can get to work.”

Frowning, Crowley flops into his chair and says “Fine. Lay it on me.”

**

It’s intimate, pouring his essence into Crowley, the tingling power of it nearly as exciting as all those times tangled in bed.

And it turns out Aziraphale was right, all those years ago. The Head Offices _do_ try to kill them, with holy water and hellfire respectively. So coming out the other side of Hell, shockingly alive, is heady and triumphant and all he wants to do is share his joy with Crowley, even though he’s knows Crowley hasn’t forgiven him quite yet. But Crowley has loved him for two thousand years, it seems unfathomable that those feelings would simply disappear. Perhaps Aziraphale needs to give it a bit of time. 

**

Aziraphale finds himself very surprised when Crowley asks him to lunch.

**

“You know what you said?” Aziraphale asks between sips of champagne.

“Which thing?” Crowley asks, sprawled in his chair as if he couldn’t care less that they are in a fancy restaurant. Which he probably doesn’t.

“Our side. You said we’re on our side,” Aziraphale says, not sure how to begin this particular conversation. The words he wants to say dance in his mouth. _I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for things to end the way they did. We need to talk._

“Did I say that? Doesn’t sound like me.”

“Be serious, Crowley. I’m trying to be serious.”

“Why be serious, angel? The world didn’t end. We should be celebrating not discussing philosophy. That can wait.”

Slightly disappointed, Aziraphale acquiesces, wishing Crowley would let him say his piece but understanding that perhaps he is just as strung out as Aziraphale and that he might be right. They deserve a break.

They finish their meal, Aziraphale eating about twice as much as Crowley—a celebration after all—and going to the bookshop together, Aziraphale still shocked that Crowley agrees. They’d been avoiding each other for five years after all. 

Well, Crowley had been avoiding him. Though it isn’t their first falling out and it probably wouldn’t be their last. Perhaps Crowley is finally willing to bury the hatchet. Aziraphale thinks they may need to bury it together. 

“Can I offer you anything?” Aziraphale asks, wringing his hands as the bell on the door tinkles when Crowley lets it swing shut.

Trailing his fingers over the newly dustless spines in the poetry section, Crowley hums. “I came in when it burned you know.”

At Aziraphale’s look of confusion, he continues, “The bookshop. When it was burning. I thought you were dead.”

“It was only fire Crowley. Not hellfire,” Aziraphale says—but then he has an image of walking into Crowley’s apartment and finding it burning, and knows he would have reacted similarly.

“Do you remember that time in the cottage when Heaven recalled you? Before I—” Crowley breaks off and looks away.

 _Before I kissed you_.

Aziraphale nods, biting his tongue so that Crowley will continue. It’s the first time Crowley has ever brought up their time in the cottage since it had ended and he hopes its not the last.

“You were gone then. But this was worse. Empty. The entire _place_ was empty. The whole Earth. And I remembered what you said about that angel that got—well, I thought—” Crowley takes off his sunglasses and rubs at his eyes.

“Look,” Aziraphale begins, not exactly sure what he’s going to say but knowing that he has to say _something_. “What you said before, well, after—you’re my best friend too. No matter what’s happened between us. Even though it’s just us now. And you’d still be my best friend if I had everyone in Heaven and Hell to choose from and I don’t know if you know that, but you should. You deserve to know that,” Aziraphale says forcefully. It’s embarrassing to lay it all on the table—well, not all. What he doesn’t say is _And I still love you desperately_ because for some reason, he can’t. The words feel as stuck in his throat as they always have. It’s too much. Far too much.

Slipping back on his sunglasses, Crowley turns to Aziraphale and his mouth quirks up on one side. “Just because I called you my best friend doesn’t mean you had to give a mushy speech like that,” he says, full of enough affection to soothe the sting of the words. 

Aziraphale returns his smile hesitantly. “Would you perhaps like to stay a while?”

“Whatever you want, angel.”

And even though Crowley keeps a good bit of distance between them as they settle into the bookshop for a long night of drinking and watching trivia shows, that phrase—full of those old threads of affection—gives Aziraphale hope that Crowley still loves him. Or at least could love him again.

Perhaps it’s time to take matters into his own hands. How hard could it be to woo a demon? Saving the world had seemed impossible too, but they’d managed that.

**

Fretting over the flowers in the shop, Aziraphale is immediately taken back to his time as Francis.

 _No marigolds_ , he reminds himself before selecting a small bunch of tiny dark red, almost black roses. Nothing ostentatious but nice all the same and perhaps a reminder of that rose that Crowley kept alive for so long. 

He adds a little note: _These reminded me of you._ _Thank you for the other evening. Next Friday? Masato’s at 7?_

Before he can lose his nerve, he sends them off with the nervous shopkeep and bustles back downtown to buy some very nice whiskey and the only brand of chocolate Crowley had ever complimented.

Feeling fortified, he returns to his shop, ready to face the customers and a potentially enraged demon if the flowers hit the wrong nerve. Aziraphale if fairly certain he hasn't been forgiven and the flowers might be a reminder of a time Crowley would prefer to forget.

He sincerely hopes not.

To his surprise—and disappointment—he doesn’t hear a peep out of Crowley until the demon walks into Masato’s at 7:15 the next Friday and plops down across from Aziraphale, looking cool as a cucumber.

“Hello, my dear,” Aziraphale says warmly, eschewing his normal reprimand for being late. 

Crowley’s eyebrows appear above his sunglasses. “What? No holier-than-thou comment about me leaving you waiting.”

“Of course not. I’m happy to wait for you.”

He hopes Crowley knows that he means it.

“I’ve already ordered us sake but didn’t want to assume what you’d like. Do you have a preference?”

Crowley shrugs so Aziraphale orders for both of them anyway and they fall into conversation about their respective weeks.

“It’s a bit weird, you know,” Crowley says between bites of California roll, “Not having any demonic assignments. I mean, it’s a big change. Being able to do what I want when I want to. No reports or questions.”

Aziraphale pats his mouth with his napkin. “I absolutely understand. I feel...at loose ends I suppose. Though being able to perform miracles whenever I want is a very nice perk.” 

Crowley snorts. “Being able to warm your hot cocoa without a second thought?”

“I also use my powers to help people!”

“What’s the ratio? One in five?” Crowley asks and Aziraphale knows he’s teasing. So he laughs. And it feels so good to laugh together.

After dinner, as they walk through the park at night, the stars are bright above them and Aziraphale feels very much at home. Perhaps its the park but he thinks it's probably Crowley, slinking by his side, where it feels he belongs more than ever. 

Scraping together his courage, Aziraphale reaches between them and takes Crowley’s hand. He pulls away and Aziraphale has to push down his disappointment as they continue their walk, Crowley asking how sentient Aziraphale thinks ducks are and Aziraphale replying that it would be ludicrous for ducks to be more sentient than any other bird.

It’s when they get to the stoop of the bookshop that Aziraphale’s resolve to make things better is truly tested. He _wants_ to make this work. He knows he has to make the first move and standing on the step by the door, he’s just as tall as Crowley so before the demon can take his leave, Aziraphale leans down and drops a kiss on his cheek. The skin is as cool as he remembers, and the skip of his own heart is just the same. 

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out the look on Crowley’s face, simultaneously pained and hopeful, and even though Aziraphale hopes that Crowley will take the hint, push them forward the way he’s so good at doing, he’s not surprised when Crowley turns away with a brief smile and a wave. 

Aziraphale supposes he’s going to have to work harder.

**

“Hello, erm, Crowley,” Aziraphale says haltingly into the receiver. 

Leaving messages makes him feel nervous. He doesn’t like the fact that they can be replayed over and over again and they remind him of the bad times, those years when Crowley never called him back. “I was hoping you’d be interested in seeing a show at The Old Vic. I’ve got tickets for tomorrow night and thought we could go together. I could pick you up? At 6? Or you could pick me up. Or we could meet there? I mean, er, let me know.”

Aziraphale puts down the receiver and sighs. He really is doing his best but it’s getting embarrassing at this point. Just, these invitations are beginning to feel like he’s risking his whole heart every time.

So the next day, despite not getting a response, Aziraphale changes into his best waistcoat and bow tie (the blue one) and gets ready to leave for the theater. He’ll go with or without Crowley, no matter how disappointed he’ll be.

But Aziraphale’s not disappointed. Because Crowley is standing on his stoop when he opens the door, loitering like only a demon can. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale says, a quick thrill of excitement lighting through him. “You came.”

“Of course I came,” Crowley says with a scowl, but Aziraphale suspects its for show.

“Let’s go then. Are you driving?”

They drive in the Bentley and Crowley doesn’t speed which Aziraphale notices and it means more to him than perhaps it should.

After the show they go for Indian food, Crowley watching Aziraphale eat, forever unreadable behind his glasses. 

“Are you sure you don’t want any?” Aziraphale asks between bites of samosa.

“Not very hungry,” Crowley replies.

“I got you something,” Aziraphale says as he puts down his half eaten appetizer. His heart is racing as he pulls out the little box of chocolates from his pocket and slides it across the table.

Crowley looks down at the box and then back up at Aziraphale, jaw tightening minutely. “Are these—”

Aziraphale tries to affect a nonchalant air, channeling his memories of Crowley’s cool displays of affection. “Yes. Your favorite if I recall. Or at least the only kind you’ve ever liked.”

Crowley’s hand drops to the box and then pulls away. “What are you doing, Aziraphale?” Crowley asks sounding exhausted.

Well, at least Crowley isn’t ignoring his actions even if his question does terrify Aziraphale.

“I’m wooing you. I thought that was obvious,” Aziraphale says, trying to sound bright, but not really feeling all that positive while his heart sinks.

“Nothing’s changed, Aziraphale.”

“Nothing’s changed?” Aziraphale asks, incredulous. Loud enough that several patrons look over at him sharply. He drops his voice and says, “Everything has changed. We’re safe! Heaven and Hell are leaving us alone. And if they’re not keeping us apart then we can be together again! Properly!”

These are thin excuses because Aziraphale knows that what’s actually changed and that he’s spent five years realizing that all he wants is the opportunity to be near Crowley and to fix their relationship, however he can. It’s too much to say though, showing his hand like that.

“I don’t see why you want to restart something you were hardly interested in in the first place.”

“ _Not interested?_ ” Aziraphale splutters, appetite swiftly disappearing as his stomach drops. Is that what—

“Yes, Aziraphale. Not interested. I was an idiot there for a while, thinking you felt the same way I did. But you made it clear that it was one-sided. Made sense when you finally put a stop to it really.” 

Crowley says it all casually like it’s a centuries old wound that’s well healed over and Aziraphale can’t stop the dark emotion that rises in him at Crowley’s attempt to dismiss Aziraphale’s very real feelings. Ones that he’s had to work so hard to admit to. Despite the anger and fear clutching at his throat, Aziraphale refuses to let Crowley push him away. Not this time.

“We are _leaving_ ,” Aziraphale says angrily, grasping at Crowley’s arm and miracling them to the bookshop with no regard for what other people would think.

Crowley stumbles at the sudden change in position.

“You can’t just yank us out of a restaurant, Aziraphale. People will talk,” Crowley says coolly, standing up and trying to straighten his clothes.

“I do not give a _damn._ Yes. _Damn,”_ Aziraphale emphasizes at Crowley’s shocked expression. “If you think I wasn’t invested then you _are_ an idiot. Why would you think any differently?”

“Hmm, I’ve had plenty of time to ponder the question,” Crowley says mockingly before tapping his lips with one finger and cocking his head. “Let’s assemble the evidence. One: I started the blasted thing, kissing you when you didn’t want it. Two: three years with nothing more than a _thank you Crowley_. I didn’t want _complacency_. I wanted you! But you didn’t feel the same. What was it you said? Early on? Different feelings—”

“Don’t you throw that back at me. I _apologized_.” Aziraphale can’t stand his careless tone. It makes him forget all the words he had planned to say that night. He had wanted to apologize, to say—

Crowley scoffs.

Aziraphale sucks in a breath through his teeth. How _dare_ he? 

They stare at each other for a moment, anger poisoning the air between them.

Finally Crowley throws up his hands and stifles a yell. “I can’t talk about this right now. I’m leaving.”

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

The door slams, almost knocking the bell off its hanger, leaving Aziraphale to parse the terrible outcome of _that_ conversation.

**

Later that night, Aziraphale pulls out his Frank O’Hara, feeling angry and nostalgic in equal parts as he looks down at the cover and thinks about lavender and rose bushes.

_Shall we win at love or shall we lose / can it be / that hurting and being hurt is a trick forcing the love / we want to appear, that the hurt is a card / and is it black? is it red? is it a paper, dry of tears_

Aziraphale feels like he finally understands Crowley’s tantrums, the emotions inside him roiling to the point he feels like he might crawl out of his skin if he doesn’t _do_ something. In his heart, he knows Crowley is right. Aziraphale had pushed him away in those early days. But he’s trying so hard now and Crowley is hardly being fair.

_I will have had my revenge on the black bitch of my nature which you / love as I have never loved myself / but I hold on/I am lyrical to a fault/I do not despair being too foolish / where will you find me, projective verse, since I will be gone?_

Absolute nonsense. Not interested! That’s ridic—

And then he remembers the look on Crowley’s face the first time he made an excuse not to sleep in the same bed. How he avoided spending extra time together during that last year at the Dowling’s. How, on that last day, he’d been so overwhelmed with happiness that he hadn’t said—

He hadn’t said. He’d _never_ said.

Why had he never said?

The mere thought of saying the words make Aziraphale’s spine tingle with fear. He loves Crowley so much and if he says it out loud...well, then it’s real. And then it will grow. And then it will be too much and Crowley will leave—

For a moment he can’t believe himself. Crowley had said _two thousand years._

 _You are being a fool_.

Before he can convince himself otherwise, he miracles himself into Crowley’s living room, startling the demon where he’s lying on the couch as he scrambles to retrieve his sunglasses.

Aziraphale watches as Crowley tries to sit up and before his glasses can obscure his eyes Aziraphale sees their red rims and is fairly certain the demon had been crying—not that Aziraphale would ever point that out. “You always said it. And I should have said it back.” 

“What?” Crowley says in a hoarse voice as he surreptitiously swipes at his cheeks with his sleeve.

Aziraphale's hands are sweating and he feels like he might discorporate from pure terror but he _has_ to say it. “I love you.”

Crowley snorts derisively in a clear effort to goad Aziraphale, anything to cover up his vulnerability. Aziraphale refuses to take the bait—bait he realizes he’d taken so many times before. Well, bugger that. Not this time.

“No,” Aziraphale says. “I won’t let you spend the next century avoiding me because we had a stupid disagreement. This is what we do. We fight. We come back together. Sometimes we hurt each other and I don’t want that anymore. I can’t promise it will always be easy. In fact I know it won’t be because sometimes you are an absolute wanker. But I do love you”—he’s relieved to note that saying the words once makes it easier to say them a second time—“More than you think. Clearly,” he says perhaps a bit more sarcastically than he should given the nature of the conversation.

“You know you’re not doing a great job of apologizing,” Crowley replies, nostrils flaring. Aziraphale gathers his resolve. He still has more to say. 

Taking a seat next to Crowley, Aziraphale does his best to figure out a way to explain. If only he’d said something before now this would be easier. There’s so much to say. So he starts with “Do you remember Paris? 1928?”

Crowley looks at him sharply at the abrupt change of subject. “You weren’t speaking to me.”

“ _We_ weren’t speaking to each other,” Aziraphale corrects. He can do this. The worst part of the conversation, the most terrifying part, is over. “I saw you, in a bar. You were wearing this dress, your hair was short then too. And you looked—I realized I loved you then. In a way more than an angel should. I looked at you and wanted to touch you and possess you and it was terrifying. But you weren’t speaking to me and it broke my heart. And then with the Nazis at that church—I realized I loved you even more than before, that I was willing to risk too much for you. You said I told you our feelings were different. I thought they were. I thought you couldn’t feel for me what I felt for you and I didn’t—I don’t think I ever got over that fear. I didn’t trust you or your feelings and that must have hurt. I _know_ it hurt. Because it hurt me too.”

Crowley is silent for a moment and then pulls off his glasses only to stare into his lap. “Rome.”

“What?” Aziraphale asks, not understanding.

“I was in the worst mood I’d ever been in. Job gone wrong. And then you appeared. You were so excited to see me. I didn’t think anyone had ever been excited to see me. And then you asked me to dinner and you made all these delighted noises as you ate these oysters and honeyed cakes and I thought the food was disgusting but I couldn’t stop watching you. And you smiled at me over your wine and it was…”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, tearing up. “That’s downright romantic.”

“No!” Crowley protests. “Not this again. Not romantic. I’m just telling you the facts.”

“The romantic facts,” Aziraphale insists and Crowley turns that shade of pink that makes Aziraphale want to kiss him silly. He feels so relieved that he’s afraid he might laugh and absolutely ruin the vulnerable expression on Crowley’s face.

Instead, he places his hand on Crowley’s knee and is thrilled when the demon doesn’t pull away. “I feel like I can only make terrible excuses for how things ended between us but I will say that I’m sorry. That I shouldn’t have hesitated then or made you feel unwanted. But from now on I _will_ choose you. Us. Together. I love you. Do you believe me now or would you like to spend a few more years making excuses and being angry with me?”

“I don’t want to spend the next few years making excuses and being angry with you,” Crowley grumbles. And even though it’s wildly irritating, it still makes Aziraphale smile.

There’s a long pause before Crowley asks, “Erm, how does this work then?”

Aziraphale is still smiling and he feels like he’ll never stop. “Well, first of all, I’d like to make love to you immediately, perhaps for several days, but I understand if you’d like to wait. Regardless, I was hoping I could take you to Venice because I haven’t been in a very long time and I’d like to see the museums, but really I’ll take you anywhere you like.”

“How long have you been planning that little speech?” Crowley asks. 

It’s a bit of a change of subject but Aziraphale indulges him, blushing because he knows he’s being teased and is pleased as punch about it. “Which part?”

“All of it.”

“Well, the first part about love was off the cuff but I’ve thought about Paris for nearly one hundred years so I had a pretty good idea on that one.”

“And the Venice bit?”

“My dear, I’ve wanted to be near you again for the last five years. Venice or San Sebastian or New York. Wherever as long as you’re there.”

“And you call _me_ romantic,” Crowley grouses, poking Aziraphale in the leg with his foot.

“ _I've_ never said I wasn’t romantic,” Aziraphale counters, edging closer, what was surely a goofy expression on his face. “Angels can be _very_ romantic.”

Crowley makes a disgusted face. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” Aziraphale asks, still smiling as he pulls Crowley into his lap. The demon goes willingly, proving that at least some of his bluster is for show.

“Like I’m a piece of cake you want to eat,” Crowley says, blinking slowly and Aziraphale thinks that he does, in fact, look quite delicious even in the harsh lights of his modern apartment.

“Well, that’s not exactly how I’d phrase it but you’re not entirely wrong.”

Crowley groans, rolling his eyes before he says, “Shut up already.”

Aziraphale feels a little wicked as he smirks and pulls Crowley down into a kiss.

**

Hours later, they are lying on the couch, Crowley draped on top of him as Aziraphale plays with his hair. It turns out he likes it short as much as he likes it long but he also thinks he probably just likes Crowley. Whatever way he is.

“I’ve been thinking,” Aziraphale begins.

“That’s no good,” Crowley retorts from where his cheek is pressed into Aziraphale’s chest.

“Be nice,” Aziraphale says, slapping Crowley’s shoulder playfully.

“Oi!” 

“I’ve been _thinking_ ,” Aziraphale says again, “that it might be nice for us to get another place. Together. Maybe outside of London.”

Crowley hums. “Could be nice.”

“What do you think of a cottage? Somewhere quiet.”

“Mmm, as long as I get to take care of the plants.”

“Whatever you want, my dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poem referenced is [ Hotel Transylvanie ](https://poetry.princeton.edu/2013/12/22/hotel-transylvanie/)by Frank O'Hara and it might be a long poem but dang you gotta read it


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i posted 2x today so don't miss ch 14!  
> beta'ed by [ wingittofreedom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wingittofreedom/pseuds/WingittoFreedom)

To: gardening.angel@yahoo.com; nanny.ashtoreth@gmail.com

From: hdowling@jhconsulting.net

_April 1, 2026 1:02 PM_

Francis and Lilith—

I’m so sorry that we’ve fallen out of touch in the last few years, but it’s been difficult with Tad’s new placement back in the States. We’ve all missed you at family Christmas.

Warlock sometimes tells me what you’re up to and I’m glad you’ve been able to keep up a relationship with him. I can’t thank you enough for being such a good influence on him. 

The reason I’m reaching out is because Warlock is graduating from Cranleigh next month and specifically asked for me to invite you his party in Surrey.

See details in attached e-vite.

I sincerely hope you are well.

Thanks,

Harriet

**

W: thanks for coming to my graduation party. It meant a lot.

F: of course. Thank you for inviting us.

W: id like if i could come visit sometime. I know we talk occasionally but its not the same as seeing you in person.

F: Absolutely. Lilith misses you a great deal. We recently retired to the country but we’ll send you an address. Perhaps we can have you over for dinner.

**

To: gardening.angel@yahoo.com; nanny.ashtoreth@gmail.com

From: WDdesigns@gmail.com

_January 1, 2030 5 PM_

Hi Francis and Nanny (I should probably start calling you Lilith. Seems weird to keep on with Nanny at this point),

I’m sure mum sent you the invite but I wanted to reach out personally. I hope you can come to my college graduation this May. I know you don’t like flying (@Francis), but we can pay for the tickets if that’s any incentive.

I just don’t think it would be the same without you.

Love,

Warlock

**

To: WDdesigns@gmail.com

From: gardening.angel@yahoo.com

_February 27, 2030 2:02 AM_

Dear Warlock,

We would love to be there. Lilith has convinced me that flying is worth it at least this once.

I’m excited to see New York. Did you know one of my favorite poets is from there?

I’m hoping I’ll have time to see the sights. Maybe you can give us a few recommendations?

Love, 

Francis

**

Warlock Dowling and Kevin Pennington IV 

Cordially invite 

Francis and Lilith Ashtoreth

To join in celebrating their union

On October 31st, 2032

Please RSVP and select your choice of dinner option

**

“A Halloween wedding?” Aziraphale says with an accusatory look at Crowley. “This is your doing. I know it.”

Crowley ignores him. “Do you s’pose _we_ should get married?” he asks, picking at his nails.

“What?”

“Us. Married. I think I fancy the idea.”

“If you think I’m going to accept _that_ as a proposal then you best think again.”

“Oi, picky angel. Fine. But don’t complain when I do put in the effort.”

It almost sounds like a threat and Aziraphale doesn’t like that at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading. all your comments and kudos have meant a lot to me. this was a silly idea i had and couldn't let go of and im so happy other folks have enjoyed it  
> if you enjoyed this fic im writing a much softer AU called [ Imperfect by Nature](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20417204/chapters/48433268) and a sexy post apocalypse pining fic that will be much shorter than this called [Ideal Partner](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20186170/chapters/47829721)
> 
> also! if you're here and thrilled there's a part 2, please note its a crowley alt POV fic. part three is an epilogue that sort of fills out this chapter and also reviews some of the trust building aspects of how a relationship with this background would work. also more warlock through the years!
> 
> you can find me on tumblr [here](https://summerofspock.tumblr.com) where i mostly post about writing, azcrow, and star trek


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